The Right Motivation

I was far too young when I got my first contact lenses, but you couldn't have convinced me of that at the time.

You see, I'd just discovered boys.

And not just any boy, either.

I'd found a very specific one I couldn't stop thinking about.

Looking back, he was far too old for me, and there was no universe in which it would have ever happened.

He was sixteen to my very gangly twelve.

But as schoolgirl crushes go, I thought he was perfect for me.

If only I didn't have to wear those glasses.

Without them, I'd look older.

And surely he'd have to notice me then.

After much cajoling, I finally convinced my mom that I was old enough and responsible enough to handle contact lenses.

So, as soon as school was out for the summer, she made an appointment.

Finally, the day came.

It was a rainy Monday morning, and as I sat in the waiting room watching the drops splash against the sidewalk, I imagined how mature I'd look without my glasses.

The doctor called me back, examined my eyes, pronounced them healthy, and fitted me for a pair of contacts.

Then came the first hurdle.

Getting them into my eyes.

This was no small feat, given how extremely awkward and alarming it was to have someone poking at my corneas.

It took several attempts, a couple of assistants, and considerable soothing before I finally cooperated.

But once the lenses were in and I'd blinked a few times, something miraculous happened.

I couldn't feel them at all.

And I had peripheral vision for perhaps the first time in my life.

I rushed to the mirror.

Oh, yes.

I definitely looked older.

"Now, Miss Kimberly. You've got to take them out and put them back in yourself before I can let you leave with them," the doctor said.

"No problem," I answered confidently.

Now that I'd seen my dream come to fruition, nothing was going to stand between me and walking out of that office wearing those lenses.

Or so I thought.

He set me up in a small room with bright lighting, an oval mirror, and a comfortable chair.

My mom settled into a chair in the corner.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

No matter how hard I tried, instinct won.

The moment my finger approached my eyeball, my eyelids snapped shut.

Every. Single. Time.

After a couple of hours, the doctor returned, took one look at my bloodshot eyes, and escorted me back to the exam room.

There followed another round of near kicking and screaming before he finally managed to remove both contacts.

"I don't think you're ready," he said.

But the pleading and tears eventually got through to him, and he agreed to let me return the following day.

So I did.

And the next day.

And the day after that.

By Friday, I was practically a member of the staff.

I'd even attended an office birthday party.

But by Friday afternoon, the doctor's patience had officially run out.

He delivered an ultimatum.

Either I managed to remove and replace those contacts that day, or I'd have to wait until the following summer to try again.

A whole year.

To a twelve-year-old with a hopeless crush, that might as well have been a lifetime.

Once again, I cried.

Once again, I pleaded.

But this time, the doctor wasn't budging.

I turned to my mother.

Surely she could do something.

And she did.

Just not what I expected.

She made me an offer I couldn't refuse.

"If you take those contacts out and put them back in within the next fifteen minutes, I'll take you to Hardee's. You can go inside by yourself and order a milkshake."

Now, under ordinary circumstances, the promise of a milkshake might not have been enough.

But this was no ordinary milkshake.

This was a milkshake from the very restaurant where the object of my twelve-year-old affection worked.

And I would get to order it myself.

Without my glasses.

Well.

That changed things.

Just like that, I took those contacts out.

I couldn't believe it.

Neither could the eye doctor.

But I was only halfway there.

I still had to put them back in.

And somehow, I did.

When I walked out of that office, the staff actually cheered.

I'd never felt prouder of myself.

And true to her word, Mom took me to Hardee's.

I walked in, ordered my milkshake, and got to see the boy I'd been dreaming about all week.

Did I get the boy?

I did not.

But he smiled at me.

And at twelve years old, that was enough.

Looking back, I have to laugh at how quickly everything changed.

For five days, I'd wanted those contact lenses more than just about anything.

I'd cried over them.

Begged for them.

Spent hours trying to master something that seemed utterly impossible.

And yet, when my mother made that offer, I accomplished in minutes what I'd struggled to do all week.

It wasn't that I suddenly developed a new skill.

Or that my eyelids had finally decided to cooperate.

The obstacle was exactly the same.

What changed was my reason for getting past it.

And I think there's something worth considering there, especially in business.

We spend a great deal of time thinking about what we need to accomplish.

The systems we need to improve.

The difficult conversations we need to have.

The new skills we need to learn.

The decisions we've been putting off.

We know these things matter.

We may even want the results badly enough to spend considerable time and energy pursuing them.

But wanting an outcome and finding the motivation to work through the uncomfortable parts aren't always the same thing.

Sometimes the problem isn't that we lack discipline.

Or determination.

Or even the ability to do what needs to be done.

Sometimes we've simply lost sight of what makes the effort worthwhile to us.

And what makes something worthwhile to one person may mean absolutely nothing to someone else.

My mother could have promised me all the milkshakes in North Carolina.

Without that particular boy behind the counter, I doubt it would have made much difference.

She understood something the rest of us sometimes overlook.

Motivation is personal.

What inspires one person to act may leave another completely unmoved.

That's worth remembering when we're trying to motivate ourselves, lead a team, or encourage someone else through something difficult.

We can explain why something matters.

We can provide instructions.

We can offer encouragement.

But sometimes the most useful thing we can do is understand what the other person actually wants.

Not what we think they should want.

Not what would motivate us.

What matters to them.

Because sometimes the difference between another unsuccessful attempt and finally getting somewhere isn't a new strategy or a better set of instructions.

It's finding a reason that makes the effort worth pushing through.

And apparently, for one twelve-year-old girl, that reason was a sixteen-year-old boy working the counter at Hardee's.

I didn't get the boy.

But I got the contacts.

And one very memorable milkshake.