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Onthe first day of class, I could have easily droned on about notable ancient Greek plays, peppering the lecture with dates and quotes from people who died 2,500 years ago.

The result would have likely been a class longing for relevance from a teacher puffed up with self-importance.

Instead, I talked about how the Greeks believed their words held up the pillars of the universe; that if their prose weren’t expressed with enough vitality and passion those pillars, along with humanity, would perish forever.

Sharing that story invited my students to share their own.

Too often in school, we’re taught to memorize facts and events that have no context to our personal lives.

As a result, we become good company at cocktail parties but lack skills transferable to our everyday lives.

The lessons we tend to remember are the ones reinforced through personal experience, or have principles we can directly connect to our lives.

3 Lessons Our Ancestors Can Teach us About Grit

100 million Americans can trace their roots to Ellis Island.

Including me.

My father’s grandparents arrived from Sicily and Calabria just a few years into the start of the 20th century.

Like many before and many after, they brought with them lofty dreams, ambitions, but mostly a desire to give their children a better life.

As a boy, whenever I failed to appreciate all I had, my folks would remind me of the great sacrifices made by those before.

I’d nod my head and promise to shape up, pretending I had some semblance of what they were talking about.

I didn’t.

How could I?

The struggles of our predecessors were on a COMPLETELY different plain.

— At the turn of the 20th century, life expectancy hovered around 49.

— Diseases and epidemics of the early 1900s included a smörgåsbord of ailments including cholera, small pox, and and typhus.

— And upon arriving in New York City, one had to navigate their way through a very strange land, while quickly securing work, and avoiding the scores of conmen trying to swindle vulnerable new settlers.

To put it plainly, life was hard.

In a time where survival no longer depends on leaving the comfort of our homes, it’s easy to lose perspective on the sacrifices that ushered in that very progress.

But by taking a look at the past, our forefathers can teach us a thing or two about the importance of cultivating grit.

Here are a 3 lessons my great-grandparents taught me about tightening my belt and moving forward.

If you’re unhappy with your life, have the courage to change something about it

“Being requires becoming.”

Int he late 19th century, Italy experienced calamity of almost biblical proportions. In Calabria and Sicily bread riots broke out in 1880.

Earthquakes, drought, landslides, excessive heat, and a plant lice calledphylloxera wiped out most of the wine industry that many Italians depended on for their livelihood.

Between 1884 and 1887 there was a cholera epidemic that killed fifty-five thousand people.

These were just some of the factors that led nearly 5.3 million Italians to leave for America by the end of the 19th century.

Simply put, they’d had enough.

As a result, they rented horse drawn-carts or walked, carrying everything they owned to the seaports of Naples and Genoa.

They left with hope but also heavy hearts. Many knew it would be the last time they ever saw their families again.

The trip across the Atlantic took two to three weeks, demanding an unbreakable spirit and equally durable stomach.

Narrow corridors, poor ventilation, low-ceilings, and crowded spaces were expected parts of the journey.

Still, they forged on.

They understood that vision without action was delusion and that meaningful change and progress was only possible if they started from a place of truth.

Their circumstances needed to changed.

They fixed what they could, consulted their unhappiness, and knew what they did today would influence tomorrow.

Just begin

“It’s the job that’s never started as takes longest to finish.” — J.R.R. Tolkien

Upon arriving at Ellis Island, immigrants were exhausted physically, spiritually, and emotionally.
Assuming they survived the worst of the journey, travelers were then surrounded by men sporting military-looking uniforms for an eye inspection.

One of the most common reasons immigrants were barred from entering the United States was because of a contagious eye disease called, trachoma.

If you failed the exam, you were sent right back home.

Needless to say, this was not only heart-breaking but tore many families apart.

Medical examiners also placed large chalk marks on the weary travelers who appeared to have a disability or unchecked ailment.

There was then a verbal examination, which preceded the fate of thousands of immigrants as they waited anxiously in the Great Hall.

If you were able to pass all the necessary requirements you then walked down a narrow corridor towards a door, which had a sign that simply read:

Push. To New York.

So, what did they do?

They pushed.

They had to.

Today, too many people live with untapped potential, unrealized dreams, and abandon the belief they have value to offer the world.

Why?

They claim they don’t know where to start.

But if our forefathers had believed the same, you wouldn’t be reading this.

Instead, they took chances amidst the ambiguity and chaos of their new world.

— They settled in urban areas

— They worked in construction

— They worked as ditch-diggers

— They built roads

— They laid cable

— They started families

— They learned to avoid swindlers

— They toughened up

— They wised up

They figured it out because they got started.

3. Don’t Settle

“Enthusiasm is common. Endurance is rare.” — Angela Duckworth

Life didn’t magically improve once the new settlers arrived in America.

Far from it.

At the start of the 20th century, the Lower East Side of New York City had nearly 300,000 people living per square mile.

In “Mulberry Bend,” the worst slum in the city, there were 1,200 people living in one block of tenements.

It was common for up to ten people to be living in a single room.

Places like Hell’s Kitchen where my grandfather was from, were tough neighborhoods where street gangs and crime were rampant.

Ramshackle houses in the Lower East Side were literally known as “Dens of Death,” because of the unsanitary living conditions.

This was a place where the sun literally never shined.

But despite these enormous challenges, most immigrants pulled themselves together and moved out within a year.

How?

They didn’t leave their homes, travel 4,000 miles across a choppy Atlantic, and sacrifice everything they had just to settle.

In other words, they didn’t come this far just to come this far.

Instead, the immigrants relied on one another.

— They sought family support.

— They chose work, regardless of how menial, over charity.

— And if they couldn’t secure work, they sold rags or just about anything they could find on the streets.

Once again, they found a way.

As a result, many Italians were able to upgrade to better living conditions in places like south Brooklyn, Greenwich Village, Harlem, and even places as faraway as California.

My great-grandparents, like many of yours, understood the greatest impediment to succeeding was complacency and taking false comfort in the notion that life had no more to offer.

They did work that was uncelebrated, worked collectively to make their circumstances better, and ultimately rose to what they were capable of.

What to Do When Your Dreams Change

“Those times when you feel most desperate for a solution, sit. Wait. The information will become clear. The confusion is there to guide you. Seek detachment and become the producer of your life.”

- The Tao of Wu by The RZA

Afew years back, my folks decided to sell the home our family had lived in for more than 20 years. They made the announcement the house was going on the market with the same fanfare as someone running to the post office.

It was just another day.

Though I hadn’t lived in the house since college, I’d grown attached to what it represented.

The birthdays, holidays, BBQs, graduations, and homecomings made the house a collage of memorable, and sometimes defining moments.

It was for that very reason, I struggled to understand why parting ways with such a place seemed so easy for my folks. It didn’t make sense, which made upset me.

But as time went on, I felt my resentment grow into something more interesting.

Appreciation.

Rather then resenting their decision, I started to admire it.

And in the process, I took away some lessons on how to better walk away from an identity you once believed defined you.

It was a tall order, especially for me.

My bias for looking back had more often than not crippled my ability to see ahead.

And even though the lessons were hard won, they were important in my evolution.

“Sometimes I think my head is so big because it is so full of dreams” — Bernard Pomerance

Not long after finishing drama school, the conviction I once had to perform under the bright lights of Broadway started to fade.

It was subtle at first. So much so, I thought I could just shoo away the doubts. But over time the cries grew louder, my spirit more and more unsettled.

My actions no longer felt in accordance with my values. They had changed because I had.

Still, I was disappointed. I felt like I was slowly taking apart what made me whole.

Performing.

I reprimanded myself, harshly by most accounts, and started to ask myself tough questions.

“Why did you work so hard if you were just planning to quit?

“Who are you without this?

“What the hell do you think you’ll do now, especially at this stage in your life?”

The more grueling the interrogation, the more frustrated I became, and the further I strayed from an answer.

Until it hit me.

I was asking the wrong questions.

When I finally settled down, I began to show more self compassion as I navigated the uncertainty. I asked myself better questions, which were sometimes so good I didn’t need the answers.

It turned out, all the fuss was about loss of identity.

I’d worked tirelessly to cultivate the image of an artist and felt I had to cling to it at all costs.

But what I realized is willfully chasing a goal without knowing why precludes you from paths that may be better for you and ultimately the world.

It’s the same reason people stay in bad marriages, hold on to toxic friends, and fail to leave soul-sucking jobs.

Change is unsettling for most people. It means consulting your unhappiness, accepting your insufficiencies, and tapping into a new type of courage.

For most people that’s far too scary, especially if it means losing your sense of self.

But the truth is, no longer knowing what you want can liberate you. Being requires becoming. And sometimes, letting part of yourself go is the only way to make yourself whole again.

Doubt is actually a chance to embrace the unknown.

To be curious about the uncertainty.

To look at ambiguity as an opportunity to redefine ambitions, or fine tune the old ones.

Because what you want at 20 will be different than what you want at 40. Only, It doesn’t mean you’ve quit a dream but that you’ve evolved and what you value most in life has too.

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Conversely, if you still love something but no longer know what role it’s supposed to play in your life, take solace in knowing you never have to quit.

You can still reinvent the role your passion plays in your life.

When acting began to gradually take a less prominent role in my life, I turned to other outlets such as writing, volunteering, and travel. All were forms of artistry that allowed me to express myself in inventive and equally meaningful ways.

Still, the most important lesson my struggle with uncertainty imparted was that we’re not defined by what we do.

Looking back, I’m convinced all those years in voice, movement, and acting class actually had little to do with performance.

Instead, we were being taught to take risks, speak our minds, be lifelong learners, make a contribution, follow our curiosity, trust our intuition, standup again injustice, to connect, to thrive, to have faith, to show courage, to sacrifice, to go towards the fear, to be kind, to fix what we could, observe, focus, and never wait for life but instead go towards it.

And if we were fortunate, we might become great actors along the way.

The point was to be open to where life might take us.

How I Learned the Cost of Not Living on Your Own Terms

“Declaring something finished freezes its evolution.” — Walter Isaacson

In the summer of 2013 I found myself driving along a narrow country road just outside of East London, South Africa. As if navigating a stick shift on the left side of the road weren’t a big enough dare, the events leading up to my impromptu adventure proved equally challenging.

After finishing my 5 weeks of volunteer work in a town called, Chinsta Village, I felt a sharp pain near my groin one morning. I spent nearly a week in bed half convinced I’d never again walk without a hitch in my step.

After practically inhaling a bottle of antibiotics and laying in bed for a week, I decided it was time to visit the main hospital in East London.

“You have a cyst,” my doctor told me. “And you have two options. First, you can let it burst on its own, which will be extremely painful. Or, you can let me operate on you tonight.”

Even doctors are salesman, I thought.

Needless to say, I paid nearly $3,000 out of pocket to avoid the first alternative.

If at all possible, I highly recommend scheduling your next emergency surgery in an area your health insurance is recognized.

A few days after my operation, I was a little banged up, but in good spirits. It turned out all the fuss was over an ulcer.

Still, the patience of my normally poised parents had been put to the test. And who could blame them? My last note to them before heading into surgery was quite distressing:

Hi Dad,

Hope all is well. Having emergency surgery. Talk soon.

Love,

Nick

This did not go over well.

But it turned out it wasn’t the choice of my words that alarmed them most, but the 4 days it took to confirm I was in fact still alive.

Either way, I learned my lesson.

You might think my experience in a drab hospital room on the other side of the world might have imparted a lesson or two.  

At the very least on the importance of maintaining your poise in the face of adversity, how to expect the unexpected, or the do’s and don’ts of communicating with your folks.

It did all of that AND more.

But it was a radio broadcast of all things that fundamentally changed the way I saw the world. To this day, I refer to the moment as my personal “Sermon on the Mount.”

A few minutes into my drive, I decided to turn on the radio. I felt relieved everything had worked out and excited about the journey ahead. A soundtrack seemed in order.

But after several minutes of carefully turning the dial as if I was opening a safe, I hear nothing but static.

Just as I was about to turn off the radio, I heard a voice leap from the speakers. It was the distinct rhythm of a South African preacher in the middle of a sermon.

“Take my house. Take my car. You can even take all my money,” he said. “But please, DO NOT TAKE MY TIME! Do not take my time because that I cannot replace.”

Seconds later, the station mysteriously faded out like some apparition into the night.

That moment changed my life.