Motivation to Rise: Live Loose and Strong

Stuck in the Dirt? Look Up.

You’re beat. I’ve been there. The days drag—laundry spills over the edges, screens buzz into the night, and you’re stuck asking, “What’s the damn point?”

It’s not just you riding that rough wave. It’s not about screwing up or missing some magic trick. It’s about what’s rattling in your head—how you face the grind when the wind’s against you.

What if joy and happiness aren’t out there to wrestle down, but right here, in how you haul yourself through the muck and the dust? I’ve stumbled through that haze too—days where the load feels like a chain, where the fire’s gone cold and the coffee doesn’t even bite.

But there’s a turn waiting, a shift that doesn’t need a billboard to scream it.

Viktor Frankl dug it out in a hellhole deeper than most of us can fathom. Science backs it with hard lines. Liz Murray clawed it from a pile of nothing. This ain’t some fluffy fix or a preacher’s promise.

It’s real—tough, human, alive.

Let’s roll in and see it through, step by heavy step.

The Grind Bites Hard

You’ve felt this rut carve deep. You kick off strong—coffee swaps for tea, boots hit the pavement, ideas flicker like sparks in the dark. It’s solid for a day, maybe two.

Then the weight lands hard. Kids yell, their voices cutting through the walls. Work bites with deadlines that don’t quit. Or the quiet turns stale—nothing moves you, nothing sticks. Where’s the fire that keeps you going?

We look out for the save—new gear, more cash, a quick win to patch the hole. It’s what they sell us on every ad, every scroll. But it fades fast, like smoke in the wind.

A 2023 Behavioral Neuroscience study tracked it—70% of our tries, habits or not, collapse in a month flat. Not because we’re soft or lazy.

Because we’re chasing the wrong damn thing—shadows on a wall. I’ve seen it play out too many times. A buddy scored a truck—shiny rims, loud engine—grinned for a week, then shrugged it off.

Another climbed the ranks at his job, hit the top, stared out the window, felt nothing but the same old drag. We’ve all chased that ghost, haven’t we?

Joy isn’t in the haul you stack up. It’s in the way you see it—the lens you grind out. That’s the shift that holds.

Frankl’s Grit in the Dark

Viktor Frankl faced the abyss and didn’t blink. A doctor in Auschwitz. He had nothing left—wind cut through him like a blade, bread was a whisper, death stood close as a shadow. Men dropped all around—some starved, some just quit breathing from the inside out.

Others didn’t.

Why?

They chose their view, and held it tight. In Man’s Search for Meaning, he wrote,

Those who have a ‘why’ to live can bear almost any ‘how.-Victor Frankl

One guy saw his kid’s grin through the barbed wire—small, bright, alive. Another gripped a tale, half-scratched in his head, promising he’d finish it someday.

Frankl pictured himself talking to a crowd—truth over ashes, a voice from the wreckage. That kept his blood moving when the cold wanted it still.

He said, “Everything can be taken from a man but one thing. The last of the human freedoms. The ability to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances."

It wasn’t about dodging the hurt or pretending it was fine. It was about standing in it—finding a spark no chain could snuff, a stubborn joy carved from rock.

Marcus Aurelius, old and battle-worn, got it too.

You have power over your mind—not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.-Marcus Aurelius

Frankl didn’t preach from a cushy chair. He scratched it out in the dirt—day by day, breath by ragged breath.

Joy wasn’t escape. It was a lens, hard-earned and human.

We don’t need camps to feel that pull. We need guts to look square at what’s real.

She Fought for Her Fire

Liz Murray hit bottom at 15, and it wasn’t pretty. Bronx streets—grit and grime, a world that chewed hard. Her folks chased dope—needles scattered on the table, days blurred into haze.

The place reeked—spoiled scraps, no heat to fight the chill. Her mom sank to AIDS, gone too soon, a shell by the end. Her dad split, a ghost drifting to a shelter.

Liz was on her own—subway benches for a bed, digging for scraps in corners. “I felt invisible,” she wrote in Breaking Night. “Like life rolled me flat and kept moving.”

She’d pushed before—school bells ringing, odd gigs to scrape by, some kind of rhythm to hold onto. It all slid away, sand through her fists.

Then her mom’s end hit—a hollow, heavy thud that echoed. “I saw her burn out, nothing left,” Liz told Oprah in 2009. “I wanted more—not flash or fame, but fire, something worth waking for.”

She didn’t hunt big answers or wait for a savior.

She turned her head, looked hard. Saw a life worth fighting for—not clean or easy, but hers to claim. One move stuck—a tether to that shift. She’d wake, hit a library, crack a book. Not for a diploma—she’d ditched that long ago.

For herself, for a way through. “Every page was a crack in the wall,” she said. It built slow—roots pushing through stone. She found a school, hit the books on borrowed couches, scraped by with nothing but will.

She won a New York Times scholarship to Harvard. Now she talks, writes, pulls others up from the same dirt. “It’s not where you start,” she says. “It’s how you see it.”

Her story’s out there—Breaking Night, Oprah clips, Homeless to Harvard. It’s not just hustle or luck.

It’s a shift—eyes over mud.

Joy wasn’t the prize at the end. It was the fight she chose.

The Science In Your Head

Your head’s wired for this.

It’s built to find the flame, even in the dark. Here’s the breakdown, piece by piece: Liz’s gut-twist for her mom—that’s the amygdala. Your raw spark, the kick that starts it. It fires when life cuts deep—love, loss, purpose that sticks to your ribs.

A 2019 Nature Neuroscience study by LeDoux and Brown says it jumps when stakes hit home, when the world feels real.

Joy.

Not loud or showy. It’s a pulse—rough and steady, something you feel in your chest. The PFC (Prefrontal Cortex) picks your view, sets the scope. Liz saw a way out. Frankl saw a reason. It’s your lookout, your point on the ridge.

A 2001 Annual Review of Neuroscience study by Miller and Cohen says it sorts the noise—keeps you locked when the wind howls.

I’ve felt it shift—staring at a storm, choosing calm over panic, letting the mess be. It’s your edge, your way to cut through. Liz’s library runs stuck because the basal ganglia locked them in. It’s your groove maker, the rhythm that holds.

A 2006 Nature Reviews Neuroscience study by Yin and Knowlton says it builds what you repeat, turns it solid. A small habit—like a quick walk—can anchor your take, keep your feet on the ground. It’s not the whole game, but it steadies you. Dopamine pulls you up, keeps the wheels turning.

A 2007 Nature Reviews Neuroscience study by Schultz says it hits hard when you move with meaning—Liz’s pages beat a cheap buzz every time.

I’ve felt it too—a step that feels solid, not forced, a lift that stays. It’s a steady burn, not a flash. Seeing the big picture—like Liz’s turn—cracks it wide.

Call it the long haul, the pulse of it all. No preacher needed, just the raw stretch of being. Andrew Newberg’s 2001 Why God Won’t Go Away says awe ties your head together—grit and heart aligned, a hum that holds.

A 2022 Journal of Positive Psychology study says it keeps you in 35% longer—steady through the rough.

I’ve stood in dust, looked up, felt bigger than the grind. That’s the kick. Liz didn’t just climb. She shifted her sight.

You’ve got the wiring too—right there, waiting.

In my book Rocket Habits, I explore how we can use this wiring to our advantage in our habits.

The Real Deal

But what if joy isn't a thing to snag, a trophy to hoist?

The motivation to rise is how you stand in the mud, boots planted, head up. Perspective’s the root—habits just prop it up, keep it from slipping. Frankl said, “Life is never made unbearable by circumstances, but only by lack of meaning and purpose.”

One small move—like Liz’s library sit—can steady your eyes, hold you to what’s true. Call it a meta-habit, a grip on the real when the ground shakes.

It’s not the whole deal—just a piece to lean on when the weight piles high. I’ve seen it play out raw—a guy lost his shop, started fixing bikes for kids, found a grin in the grease and the squeak of a wheel. Not a headline, but a heartbeat that thumped steady. Another friend walked out of a bad year, took up carving wood—not to sell, but to feel the grain, to breathe something solid into his hands.

I felt it myself down in the Dominican Republic, a trip that hit me sideways. The sun burned hot, the streets hummed with dust and noise—motorcycles weaving, kids laughing, chaos in every corner. I was there to unplug, but I got lost in it instead.

One day, a local grinned at me, handed me a cup of coffee, and said, “La Baina, man—the thing.”

He meant life, the mess, the whole deal. I sat there, sweat on my neck, watching the world roll by, and it clicked—not the coffee, not the break, but the way I saw it.

The struggle wasn’t the enemy. It was La Baina—the thing worth showing up for, the raw pulse of being alive. I walked the sand after that—not to fix anything, just to feel the surf, to carry that lens back home.

Joy’s not the treasure you stack or the finish line you cross.

It’s the lens you carry, the way you turn the weight into something worth holding onto. La Baina isn’t the prize—it’s the fight, the stand, the heartbeat you choose to hear.

That’s where the real stuff lives, in the thick of it.

Motivation To Rise. Start Here.

Here’s a rough way through, no polish: Find your ‘why.’

What’s your Liz moment, your cut through the fog?

Ask, “What cuts past the junk—what’s worth it?” A face you’d fight for. A fight you’d finish. The dirt under your boots when the sun hits.

Dig in, let it sit with you. Shift your take—look hard at what’s in front. “This day's not dead—it’s mine to hold.” “This hit isn't the end—it’s a mark.” Say it low, let it sink into your bones. It’s not about lying to yourself—it’s about seeing what’s already there.

Grab a tether, something small. One habit—five minutes. Walk it out slow. Sit tight with your thoughts. Scratch a note on a scrap.

Keep it simple, no big show. It’s just a thread to pull you back. Let it stick—tie it to your sight. “This step’s my ground, my stand.” “This breath’s my fight, my air.” Do it daily—let it settle in. It holds you when the rest shakes.

Rainer Maria Rilke wrote:

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.-Rainer Maria Rilke

It’s not about nailing it perfectly.

It’s about looking straight and moving anyway.

Wear It Loose, Burn It Strong.

Joy isn't a trophy you shine up for the shelf. It’s how you move—rough, real, yours to claim.

Frankl stood tall in hell—cold, but kicking, a spark no frost could kill. Liz rose from nothing—raw, but rooted, a fire she built herself with her own hands.

You can rise too—same dirt, same sky, same chance to see it different. Habits help—they brace your view, keep your legs under you when the ground shifts. But perspective’s the spark, the heat that lasts through the long haul.

The Dalai Lama said, “Our prime purpose in this life is to help others. And if you can’t help them, at least don’t hurt them.”

Start with yourself—don’t kick your own ribs when you’re down. See the road clear—cracks, mud, and all—and find joy in perspective right where you stand.

St. Francis had it right: “Wear the world like a loose garment.” Don’t grip it tight—let it hang, let it breathe. That’s La Baina too—the thing, the mess, the life—not a weight to crush you, but a coat to shrug on and keep walking.

Haul it forward, one foot, then the next, steady as you go.

What’s your take? Grab it. Hold it firm.

Let it pull you into the wide open—where the real heat burns, where the good stuff lives, where you feel it deep and free.

Until Next Time,

Jerod

P.S. I cover many practical steps to this way of living in my new book "Rocket Habits". You can get a free copy here.