What makes you keep going when no one's watching?
I always think the same question whenever I hear a story of the 20-year overnight success - the artist, company, or individual discovered after decades of walking in the dark. Years of creating without recognition, building without guarantee, moving forward without knowing if they'll ever arrive.
Why did they keep going?
People love to quote Nietzsche: "He who has a why to live can bear almost any how." As if finding your purpose is enough to sustain you through those decades in the dark. As if having a reason why will carry you through all the how.
But the why wasn't enough. At least not for me.
When I was drowning in engineering homework at midnight, my mind was torn apart by exhaustion and failed projects, knowing my "why" didn't help. I chose this pain, and I could just as easily choose another path. Why keep going?
But then I'd remember the student whose spot I took.
I got into this competitive program because I beat someone else to the seat. Now their life's trajectory is different. They might have had more drive, more passion, more need for this opportunity. But I'm the one sitting here, staring at equations I could barely understand.
I know this because I've seen both sides of the opportunity divide.
At my first school, engineering wasn't even a possibility. Neither was filmmaking. Or writing. The school could only afford core classes, so those futures didn't exist in my mind. If I had stayed there, I wouldn't have known what to do past high school.
It wasn't until I moved to a school with more resources that these paths opened up. Suddenly, futures I couldn't imagine became possible. But that also meant I understood exactly what was at stake - how many talented kids never get to see these paths, never get to try these futures.
That's what keeps me going.
Not some abstract why about helping others or making a difference. But the concrete weight of opportunity - knowing that for every seat I occupy, there's someone who would have given anything to be here.
Most motivation advice tells you to find your why - your purpose, your North Star, your reason for being. But purpose is like vapor, impossible to grasp when exhaustion sets in. When you're alone at midnight, drowning in work, noble ideas about "making a difference" evaporate into the dark.
What remains is more tangible: the empty chair beside you. The path not taken by someone else because you're walking this one. The futures that could have been.
This isn't about guilt. It's about gravity - the pure weight of opportunity keeps me grounded when motivation floats away.
When I think about quitting, I'm not just letting down some abstract ideal. I'm letting down that specific kid from my old school who had the spark for engineering but never got to light it. The one who would have poured their whole heart into these problem sets I'm tempting to abandon.
I know they're real because I was almost them. If I hadn't moved schools, I'd be that kid who never knew these paths were possible. That's a different kind of fuel source - not the bright flame of purpose, but the steady burn of obligation to possibility itself.
Each opportunity is a door that opened for me but stayed closed for others. Their alternate futures fuel my present, pushing me to pry those doors open wider.
That's why I got a degree in engineering: to improve access to resources.
Every time I was given the chance to do my own project, I picked ones that were small and made life easier.
For my high school capstone project, I noticed the special education students would help the janitors clean the tables after lunch but many of them had physical disabilities preventing them from carrying the cleaning supplies. I developed an assistive cart for the special education students to help them carry those supplies.
I volunteer at the library tutoring kids on algebra and science to students who remind me of myself at my first school. Each time I help a student grasp a concept; I'm not just teaching - I'm opening a door they might not have known existed.
And sometimes, I see these students return to teach others, without being asked. They understand what I understood: that opportunity isn't ownership - it's stewardship.
Each chance we get isn't just ours to use, but ours to transform into chances for others.
That's what keeps me going: making the best of every situation, finding ways to move forward, proving these paths exist for those still searching for their way.
When I was applying to a rehabilitative engineering program in college, I wrote in my statement of purpose: I don’t see my role as an engineer as building the future, but making sure the future is accessible to everyone.