The Try Hard

On a recent drive to Martock, somewhere between Mahone Bay and a stretch of black ice, I was called a “try hard.”

It was not delivered as a compliment. It was delivered as fact. It hung in the car like the air freshener you didn’t consent to.

Try hard.

I considered my options. Push the passenger out? Dramatic. Veer gently into the ditch? Also dramatic. Instead, I turned up the heated seats and chose evolution. That’s growth. I checked.

Because here’s the inconvenient truth.

I am a try hard.

But I wasn’t always.

There was a version of me that coasted. Didn’t try much at all, if we’re being honest. I tolerated less in some ways and took more in others. I blamed easily. I sulked professionally. I accepted anger as proof of passion. I mistook volatility for depth. I believed communication was optional and simply a scenic route to winning an argument. That man stuck his head in the sand and called it stability. He thought if he didn’t lean in too much, he couldn’t be disappointed. He thought detachment was strength. He thought caring less would hurt less.

He was wrong.

And here’s the part that’s almost funny.

Back then, I barely tried and it still leaned. That’s when it clicked , effort isn’t what creates imbalance. It’s the absence of it on the other side.

That’s where the shift happened.

Was it neurological? Possibly. The stroke didn’t take my voice. It took my patience for people who choose not to use theirs.

Was it existential? Also possible. When I was met with my own mortality ,what I call “the fire” , I stopped performing indifference. I stopped living a lukewarm life.

My tolerance isn’t infinite, neither is my time here on earth.

So now I try. Not just harder. Intentionally. Deliberately. Not to earn love. Not to compensate for someone else’s inertia. Not to audition for “Most Accommodating Man in Nova Scotia.”

I try because I care how things feel.

I will ask for the first date.
I will make the drive.
I will make the reservation.
I will ask the first question.

And if your answer has substance, I will meet it with substance.

What I no longer do is try alone.

There’s a culture right now that confuses detachment with value. The less you say, the cooler you appear. Emotional minimalism that passes for depth. Monosyllables that are apparently mysterious.

You ask something thoughtful.
You receive: “Yep.”
You offer nuance.
You receive: “Cool” or worse ”Neat”

That’s not mystery. That’s just conversational lint.

But ,nothing makes me dip faster than a “YEP”.

Not because I “deserve” paragraphs. Side bar.. I don’t love that word “deserve.” It smells faintly of entitlement.

It’s not about what I deserve.

It’s about what I’m willing to accept.

And I am not willing to accept asymmetry disguised as acceptable masculinity. Or silence disguised as confidence. Or indifference disguised as strength.

Some men seem  to confuse their  ignorance with their confidence and are deeply offended when asked to prove the difference.

Reciprocity is not dramatic. It’s not grand. It’s a current. You lean forward; I lean forward. You invest; I invest. You drive halfway; I drive halfway.

It is astonishingly simple.

If that makes me intense, so be it. I’ve been called “pretty intense,” which I find curious. Why does everything become more attractive when you’re camping? Is it the stars, or simply the lowered expectations?

If that intensity makes me incompatible with a culture that prizes low effort as a personality trait, I can survive that . I have survived worse than someone typing “Yep.”

So yes … I am a try hard.

Because I am awake. Because I am alive.

And if that feels like pressure, it’s probably because you weren’t planning to try at all.

“Raised eyebrow.” Both of them actually.