The Joyless Glory of Getting It Done

Photo by Nina Mercado on Unsplash

There’s satisfaction in hard work. Even if the work sucks. It’s worth doing. Fun is for other things.

That’s something they don’t really tell you. Not because it’s a secret. Just because no one wants to hear it. Try bringing that up at a dinner party. You’ll kill the mood faster than a clogged toilet.

But you know it’s true.

There’s a kind of quiet you get after a long day of doing something stupid and necessary. Shoveling gravel. Cleaning out gutters. Stacking boxes so they don’t fall and crush a teenager on his phone. That kind of work. The kind that doesn’t belong in a glossy brochure or get you a round of applause. But you do it anyway. You do it right. And when you’re done, the world’s a little more orderly than it was before. Not much. But enough.

You don’t have to love it.

The real trick is separating work from fun. They don't have to overlap. In fact, they probably shouldn’t. Work can be grueling and grimy and feel like chewing leather, and still be worth doing. Fun’s got its place. Usually somewhere after dinner, half a drink in, when your hands are clean and your feet are sore. That’s when fun makes sense. Not in the middle of scraping dried paint off a basement floor. Or editing chapter 34 of your novel.

People keep trying to dress work up. Call it passion. Purpose. A calling. That’s fine if you’re preaching or painting sunsets. But most days, work is just work. You punch in, do the thing, and try not to lose your mind. That’s noble, in its own ugly way.

I once spent hours sorting screws in a windowless room that smelled like mildew and rot. By the end, I could tell a #8 coarse thread from a #10 fine just by the feel. Didn’t change the world. Didn’t even change the shelf they were going on. But I slept like a corpse that night. Not because I was proud. But because I was tired in the right places. That’s the satisfaction I’m talking about. Bone deep tired. Clean hands tired. The kind that says, “I did a thing today and it stayed done.”

Fun doesn’t do that. Fun is sugar. Sweet, fast, and gone before you know it. Nothing wrong with it. But don’t confuse it with nourishment. Hard work is potatoes. Boiled, unseasoned, filling as hell. You may not crave it, but it keeps you going.

There’s an old man in my neighborhood who fixes lawnmowers in his driveway. Bent over greasy blades, sun on his neck, radio low and humming. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t talk. Just works. Every now and then he looks up like he’s remembering something from long ago. Then he goes back to tightening bolts. There’s something sacred in that. Not happy. Not miserable. Just necessary.

I think we need more of that. More things done because they need doing. Not because they spark joy or feed your soul or whatever. Just because someone has to clean the damn drain or the house floods.

There’s freedom in it, too. When you stop expecting work to make you feel good, you’re free to feel other things. Anger. Gratitude. Nothing at all. That’s the beauty. You get to feel like a person again. Not a brand. Not a project. Just a tired human with dirty scrapes and scars and a cold drink waiting somewhere.

Fun is for laughing and staying up too late. Work is for the bones. It settles into you. Holds you up when the rest of life feels like wet cardboard.

You don’t have to love it. But you should respect it.

Especially when it sucks.