What They See

Alex starts things and never finishes. The novel that’s been “almost done” for three years. The business that lasted six months. The gym membership used twice. The degree program abandoned halfway through.

Every New Year brings new goals, new excitement, new promises. By March, it’s all forgotten.

People have stopped believing in Alex’s projects. “Here we go again,” they mutter when Alex announces the next big thing. Friends offer polite encouragement but secretly think: They’ll quit this too.

“No follow-through,” Alex’s father says. “No discipline. You give up the moment things get hard.”

Quitter. Flake. All talk, no action. Someone who can’t commit to anything.

What They’re Protecting

Alex is terrified of failing. Not of quitting—of trying their absolute best and still not being good enough.

As long as they quit, they can tell themselves, I could have succeeded if I’d really tried. The possibility remains intact. The dream stays perfect.

But finishing? Finishing means finding out. It means submitting the novel and facing rejection. Launching the business and watching it fail. Sticking with the degree and potentially graduating without the success they imagined.

Quitting is painful. But it’s safer than the definitive answer of “not good enough.”

This started young. Alex was the gifted kid—brilliant, promising, destined for greatness. Every adult said so. Every test confirmed it. Alex’s entire identity became wrapped up in potential.

But potential is fragile. The moment you try and fail, potential becomes proof that you were never as special as everyone said.

So Alex learned to quit before the verdict. To abandon ship before it could sink. To preserve the fantasy of what they could be by never finding out what they are.

The Internal Dialogue

What if I try everything and I’m still mediocre?

This is the terror underneath every quit. Not that they’ll fail—that they’ll try their absolute hardest and discover they’re ordinary. That all the “you’re so talented” and “you could do anything” was wrong.

It’s easier to live in maybe than definitely not.

Alex knows this is cowardice. But the alternative feels unbearable. Finishing the novel means facing the possibility that they’re not actually a great writer. Sticking with the business means confronting the chance that they’re not a brilliant entrepreneur.

As long as they quit, they can keep believing. As long as nothing is finished, nothing can be judged.

I’m so tired of disappointing people.

This includes themselves. Every quit is another confirmation that they’re not who they thought they’d be. Another dream abandoned. Another promise broken—mostly to themselves.

But what if I succeed and it’s not enough?

This is the fear beneath the fear. What if they finish, succeed, achieve—and still feel empty? What if the destination doesn’t fix what’s broken inside them? Better not to arrive than to arrive and find nothing there.

The Moment

Alex is 200 pages into the novel. Again. This time feels different, but the fear is creeping in. The voice that says this isn’t good enough. You should quit before someone reads it and confirms what you suspect.

Alex’s friend asks, “How’s the book?”

“I’m thinking of scrapping it. Starting something new.”

The friend is quiet. Then: “Alex, I love you, but you do this with everything. What are you really afraid of?”

The question breaks something open. “I’m afraid I’ll finish it and it’ll be terrible. That I’ll try my best and my best won’t be good enough.”

“So?” the friend says gently. “What if it’s not good enough? What if you finish it and it’s just… okay? Does that mean you shouldn’t have written it?”

Alex sits with this. The radical idea that completion has value beyond quality. That finishing is its own success, regardless of the outcome.

They decide to finish the novel. Not because they believe it’ll be brilliant—but because they need to prove to themselves they can complete something. Can face the judgment. Can survive the verdict, whatever it is.

The novel isn’t perfect. One agent loves it, five reject it. It’s not a bestseller. It’s not a masterpiece.

But it’s finished. And Alex is still standing.

The Truth

The quitter isn’t lazy. They’re afraid. Every abandonment is a preemptive strike against the pain of definitive failure.

We judge people who don’t finish without understanding that for some, finishing is scarier than quitting. That the verdict of “you tried and weren’t good enough” feels more brutal than the perpetual “what if.”

Sometimes the person who can’t commit isn’t avoiding work—they’re avoiding the terrifying moment of truth when potential meets reality and might not survive the meeting.

They don’t need lectures about discipline. They need permission to be imperfect. To try and fail and still have worth. To finish something that’s just okay and realize that’s still better than a thousand perfect dreams that never became real.

Who is Alex? Someone learning that done is better than perfect. That the bravery isn’t in succeeding—it’s in finishing. That being ordinary isn’t the tragedy they feared. That they’re more than their potential; they’re what they actually create, imperfect and real.