I Will Not Be Outworked

A Saturday morning reflection on memory, grit, discipline, and the grace of becoming who we were meant to be.

May 30, 2026

Story

Yesterday morning, I graduated my seniors.

My second graduation as the Principal of Red Bank Catholic.

And even now, a day later, I am still thinking about what that moment stirred in me.

As I stood there, looking out at them in their caps and gowns, I had one of those moments where time seems to fold in on itself.

How did we get here already?

It feels like five minutes ago that this school year was beginning. New faces. New conversations. New challenges. New beginnings. And then, just like that, we were at graduation.

The music. The procession. The proud parents. The faculty. The speeches. The names being called. The tassels. The hugs.

The ending that is really a beginning.

It was beautiful.

And what made it even more special was knowing that my family was watching the live feed. Lee, my Mom, my sister in Nevada, my cousins from Pennsylvania to Oklahoma, and New Jersey in between — all connected to that moment from wherever they were. There is something deeply moving about that. To be standing in this role, in this moment, doing work that I believe God called me to do, and knowing that the people who love me were watching, cheering, and sharing in it from near and far.

I felt so blessed. And grateful.

At some point, my cousin Sinara wrote something funny in our family thread:

“I feel like Vanessa is graduating.”

I laughed when I read it.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized she may have been onto something.

There was something about the day that made me feel like I was graduating too. Not literally, of course. But emotionally. Spiritually. Professionally. Personally.

Standing there with the Class of 2026, watching them step into the next chapter of their lives, I found myself thinking about my own graduation.

And the truth is, I barely remember it.

I wish I did.

I wish I remembered the faces, the music, the conversations, the feeling of sitting there not fully understanding that a chapter of my life was closing forever.

And then I looked out at my students and wondered:

Will they remember this?

I hope they do.

I hope they remember the way their parents looked at them. I hope they remember the teachers who shaped them. I hope they remember the friendships, the laughter, the hard days, the victories, the mistakes, the prayers, the dances, the games, the retreats, and the moments they didn’t know were becoming memories.

I hope they remember more than I did.

And then my mind went somewhere else.

I started wondering what life would be like if we could look ahead.

Not forever. Not the whole story. Just a glimpse.

What if, at certain moments in our lives, we could see just far enough into the future to understand how important the present really was?

What if we could look ahead and realize:

This is one of those moments.

Pay attention.

Lock this in.

You are going to want to remember this.

Would we be more present?

Would we look up more often?

Would we stop rushing through the very moments we will one day wish we could return to?

Because that is the strange thing about life. So much of what becomes meaningful later feels ordinary while we are living it.

Graduation may not feel ordinary, of course. It is a milestone. A celebration. A beautiful punctuation mark at the end of a long sentence.

But even in big moments, we can miss the meaning if we are not paying attention.

And as I stood there, I realized I was not only looking at my students.

I was looking back at my own road too.

The long road.

The drive. The willpower. The perseverance. The grit. The discipline. The stubborn refusal to quit.

I thought about the people who inspired me. The people who stood by me. The people who pushed me. The people who challenged me. The people who, in their own way, forced me to work harder than I thought I could.

I thought about every version of myself that had to show up along the way.

The young teacher.

The aspiring administrator.

The doctoral student.

The principal.

The superintendent.

The woman who had to decide when one chapter was complete.

The woman who had to trust God enough to step into a new one.

Maybe that is why Sinara’s comment stayed with me.

“I feel like Vanessa is graduating.”

Maybe part of me was.

Reflection

I was recently revisiting Angela Duckworth’s work on Grit through Brian Johnson’s Philosopher’s Note, and I found myself thinking about one of the deeper questions her work invites us to consider:

What allows some people to keep going toward a long-term goal, even when the road is hard?

Duckworth defines grit as passion and perseverance for long-term goals. Not talent alone. Not luck alone. Not a short burst of motivation. But the willingness to keep going, over time, toward something that matters.

That idea has always resonated with me.

In Grit, Duckworth references a powerful and funny reflection from Will Smith about work ethic. He says, “I’ve never really viewed myself as particularly talented… Where I excel is ridiculous, sickening work ethic.”

And then comes the line that made me stop:

“I will not be outworked, period.”

He goes on to describe two people on treadmills. Someone may be more talented, smarter, or gifted in all kinds of ways, but if they are on the treadmill together, Smith says, one person is getting off first — and it will not be him.

Boom.

Yes.

I can relate to that.

Not because I am trying to make everything a competition, although let’s be honest, I am competitive.

But that is not really the point.

The point is that I have always believed I got this far because I would not quit.

Not because I was the smartest person in every room.

Not because I was the most talented.

Not because the path was easy or perfectly laid out.

But because when something mattered, I went after it.

When I decided I wanted to become a school administrator, I did.

When I decided I wanted to earn a Ph.D. in Leadership in School Administration, I did.

When I decided I wanted to become a public school superintendent, I did.

And when I decided I was done with that chapter and wanted to pursue a new role in Catholic school leadership, I did.

None of those things happened by accident.

None of them happened because someone handed me a perfectly wrapped opportunity.

None of them happened without sacrifice.

They happened through grit.

Discipline.

Willpower.

Faith.

And a deep belief — one my friend Michelle shared with me long ago, and one that has stayed with me ever since — that God always places us where we are supposed to be, even when we do not fully understand it at the time.

But I also believe that being placed where we are supposed to be does not mean the work disappears.

We still have to show up.

We still have to do our part.

There is a phrase that gets used often:

“How you do one thing is how you do everything.”

I know it can feel overused.

But there is truth in it.

To me, it does not mean we are perfect in every area of our lives. It does not mean we never fall short, never get tired, never procrastinate, never lose focus, or never need a reset.

Of course we do.

We are human.

But what it does mean, at least for me, is that I am not willing to half-do the things that matter.

What is the point?

And maybe that is a question worth sitting with.

Where in our lives are we doing just enough to get by?

Where are we showing up physically, but not fully present?

Where are we saying something matters, but not giving it the attention, discipline, or effort it deserves?

I do not ask those questions from a place of judgment. I ask them because I have had to ask them of myself.

There are seasons when we all coast a little. We get tired. We get distracted. We get comfortable. We tell ourselves we will get back to it later.

But the things that matter most usually do not become meaningful because we casually drift into them.

They become meaningful because we choose them.

Again and again.

With attention.

With effort.

With discipline.

With love.

If I am going to lead, I want to lead well.

If I am going to work, I want to work hard.

If I am going to love, I want to love fully.

If I am going to commit, I want to commit with my whole heart.

If I am going to step into a calling, I want to honor it.

Maybe that is why graduation stirred something in me.

And why my cousin’s text resonated so deeply.

“I feel like Vanessa is graduating.”

She was right.

Not because I was crossing a stage or receiving a diploma, but because this reflection helped me understand something I had not fully named before:

We graduate more than once.

Not just from high school.

Not just from college.

But from seasons, roles, identities, and versions of ourselves we have outgrown.

Maybe every meaningful season of life invites us to graduate from one version of ourselves into another.

Questions

What moment in your life do you wish you had paused long enough to lock in while it was happening, so you could remember it more clearly today?

What part of your story required more grit, discipline, faith, and perseverance than anyone else could see?

Where in your life are you doing just enough to get by, when your heart knows you are being called to more?

And what version of yourself might you be graduating into now?

Because maybe the goal is not simply to work harder.

Maybe the goal is to live so intentionally that, years from now, when we look back, we can say:

I was present.

I did the work.

I did not quit.

And by the grace of God, I became who I was meant to be.

Note: This reflection was inspired in part by Angela Duckworth’s work in Grit: The Power of Passion and Perseverance, and Brian Johnson’s Philosopher’s Note on the book.

Until next Saturday, choose presence.