There are moments in life when the lines blur—when what looks like dignity may be delusion, and what feels like courage teeters dangerously close to collapse. We often romanticize perseverance, assigning nobility to the act of pushing forward at all costs. But beneath that sheen of strength can lie exhaustion, denial, or a desperate refusal to let go.

Recently reading The Undefeated, Hemingway’s short story about Manuel, an aging bullfighter past his prime, brought this tension into sharp focus. Manuel chooses grit—he steps into the ring once more, battered and overlooked, because his identity is entangled with the fight. To quit would feel like disappearing. But should he have hung his cape after winning his titles, letting the silence of dignity speak louder than the roar of the crowd? That same question haunts the story of Muhammad Ali—how long do we keep fighting simply because we don’t know who we are without the fight?

I’ve found myself at this same crossroads more than once—clinging to projects, relationships, and roles long after they’ve stopped feeding me. Grit kept me going, but lately, I’ve been asking if letting go might be its own kind of strength.

Dignity, in its purest form, is grounded in truth. It’s knowing who you are, what you value, and what you’re willing to stand for—even in defeat. Delusion, however, wears a similar mask. It says, “Keep going. You can’t afford to stop.” It’s the voice that won’t let you rest for fear that rest equals failure. It urges you to keep performing, even when no one’s watching—or worse, when you’re the only one still clapping.

Then came a different voice—Annie Duke’s Quit, another book that challenged me to look more closely at the other side of the equation. A professional poker player, Duke argues that we’ve vilified quitting, casting grit as a virtue and quitting as a vice. But quitting, she says, isn’t weakness—it’s strategy. It’s wisdom. It’s knowing when the odds no longer justify the investment. And perhaps more importantly, it’s trusting that your identity isn’t tied to how long you stay, but how well you choose when to go.

Courage lifts you from bed when grief weighs like lead. It whispers, “Try again,” even when the odds are against you. But walk far enough down that road, and you might find collapse—quiet, creeping, and often invisible to those around you. Collapse doesn’t always look like a breakdown. Sometimes it’s numbness. Sometimes it’s silence. Sometimes it’s showing up, smiling, and slowly disintegrating inside and behind the mask you have worn far too long.

I have lived much of my life at this edge, as I was forced to survive before I was taught to feel. I had to fight for justice, my own and others’ before I learned how to rest and endure, rather than question whether this was right. But since no one else was stepping in, I learned to do rather than be.

And yet, it’s at this very edge—where identity is both forged and frayed—that we can start to see ourselves clearly. Not as heroes. Not as victims. But as humans, with beating hearts, bruised dreams, and an ever-present hunger for something softer than survival.

To know when to press on and when to lay it down—that is not weakness. That I have finally realized and accepted is wisdom. That is dignity, without delusion. Courage, without collapse. And, as I have finally learned, my grit is good, but only without losing myself in the fight.