We emulate heroes, and in doing so, we challenge convention and create progress. The hero's journey is a template for a life worth living.

However, in the modern media, when a regular mortal rises to the rank of hero (whether as an inventor, super-athlete, or pioneer), we paint a portrait of them not as a mortal hero, but as a god. Gods don't need journeys, their greatness is intrinsic to who they are. It's not just the media, our short attention span is also to blame. You can't fit the realities of a person's journey into a headline. There's no sizzle in saying they worked hard at something until their ability could no longer be denied. That takes the mystery (and fun) out of it. It makes the person we idolize, another one of us. One of us who worked hard. Heroism no longer serves as a template for others to follow—it is now click-bait.

But greatness is the byproduct of a long and arduous journey. Even a prolific writer such as Mark Twain had to learn how to crawl, walk, and talk before becoming a decent writer. From there he had to pull himself out of the primordial ooze and learn to write well. But writing well is the bare minimum—the starting line. It would still be decades before Twain became the grey-haired and bushy-browed writer extraordinaire we now know. History only remembers what it believes to be the end product, but that's only part of the story. Within all of us are the multitudes—every version of us that preceded who we are now, and every version of us we've yet to become.

Giving up before We Start

We romanticize people who are good at what they do—that one day they woke up with a divine gift. But real life is much fairer than that; we can all be good at things—with practice. To stick to practice is not just a matter of motivation or keeping things fun, it's about being able to endure. Endurance is the opposite of motivation. Where motivation ends, endurance begins. Even when you hate doing something, endurance can overcome your hate. Why? Because the more you practice, the more you can endure. The more you can endure, the more meaningful your practice.

Mass consumerism will ask, "Why bother with meaning and doing when you can live vicariously? Isn't it easier to buy products to be like your heroes?" But the things we really need are often free. The barriers that hold us back are our own beliefs. Endurance is a character trait, and character traits have no paywall. Rather than seeking to bypass the discomforts of character, we must actively develop it. And character can only be developed through activities that require it. What is a frivolous life but a life without character—a life without meaning? We wouldn't say "it builds character" for an easy task. It wouldn't need it. There is no staying power without challenge. But those with dogged perseverance can move mountains—even if only given a spoon to do it.

The Boredom-Enjoyment Paradox

When something is challenging, we don't always enjoy it. But when it's not challenging, we say it's boring. And when it's boring, we stop. Boredom doesn't involve explanation—it's the symptom and the cause. "It's boring, so of course I stopped." We have become so indoctrinated in our revulsion to boredom, we stopped asking questions. We wrongly believe its immorality is self-evident. (We not only do this with ideas but also with people. That's indoctrination: if you start with people early enough, you don't need evidence to support your claims.) Our reasoning is circular: It's bad because it is. This is how it's always been.

But boredom is new; it didn't become a word until the late 1800s. And even after its invention, it was more of a novelty, for poetic use, literary magic to make a detail seem more interesting. Hyperbole. (Thank Charles Dickens for this as he was the first to popularize it. But that's part of what good writing is, to make nothing sound interesting. And to do that meant making us believe nothing was awful. Boring! Ew! Perhaps then, pure entertainment is the opposite of philosophy and science, as philosophy and science both value nothingness. This then explains why many find science and philosophy to be boring. However, this was not always the sentiment. In the past, people were willing to risk their lives for more access to scientific and philosophical knowledge.)

However, only after the invention of television did the boredom virus take off. But unlike a physical disease that starts in a third-world country, boredom was a first-world intellectual contagion. Also unlike a real virus, boredom is a placebo—it only exists if you think it exists. But with any radicalized dogma, once you buy into it, it's an uncomfortable journey to agnosticism.

The Evolution of Boredom

The modern view of boredom is this: Idle time is bad. We converted to a dogma where all time should be productive, and leisure a sin. Post-industrialization created the right fertile grounds for this interpretation to germinate. Guilt and shame did the rest.

But fun is an even newer concept than boredom—only coming into existence in the 1900s. Prior to then, fun meant fake, hoax, or taking advantage. (And I would argue it still means mostly that. The day-to-day tricks and harm are products of people having fun. They were just kidding.) But before fun and boredom, people just lived. Moment by moment. And whatever sensation perceived became a part of how we defined the moment. This is how it feels... to be alive.

But even deep into the post-boredom era, it was still unusual for boredom to mean anything substantive. "I can't do this because it's boring" was usually met with, "So what?" To this day, the world is split on boredom. Is it real or is it not? Is it a myth—is it like Bigfoot?

One might say, "I'm bored. It makes me want to scream. I'm telling you everything you need to know." While another might say, "You think you're telling me something, but you've actually told me nothing." It's similar to how people are adopting the term "whatever" to make a point that can't be made. "It's whatever." "How did you like the movie?" "It's whatever." "Oh, you stopped guitar lessons?" "Yeah, it was whatever." Two people can engage in a conversation and think they are communicating and understanding one another when nothing was actually communicated or understood. It's equivalent to me saying "I blah, blah, blah, and blah," followed by you saying, "Oh. Yeah. I get it." And when someone asks you what we talked about, what do you say? "Oh, nothing." Even in saying "nothing" you still don't really get—no, we really talked about nothing. You're not just saying that.

It's hard to pull away from our automatic beliefs, to see things as they are vs. not seeing things at all. Boredom is immaterial; it's not something you can touch, and it's not something someone else can feel or understand on your behalf. It only exists in your head. Your parents love you and care for you (I hope they do anyway). If you suffer, they suffer. That's empathy, and they are hardwired to empathize with you more than anyone else. But your boredom will not trigger their empathy. It's not one of the evolutionary instincts we're programmed to care about. If for instance, you couldn't mow the lawn, your parents would ask: Are you physically okay? Are you feeling well? Are you sick? Boredom is unseen, but unlike other unseen conditions like depression or loneliness, it's not something you can even describe. It's whatever. (In some countries, it's an urban legend. What is this mystical thing they have in first-world countries called boredom? The culmination of needs met and free time? Sounds like a utopia.)

As we grew more fragile and pleasure seeking, we needed a separate word for mild unpleasantness—to say mild unpleasantness was no joke. We fought to give the idea power until boredom became the primary reason to stop a pursuit. And any discomfort beyond mild became anxiety. This is the current state of our modern psyche.

Imagine an old nomadic tribe who rely on sheep as their lifeline losing their flock because the attendant watching got bored and abandoned his duties. Without their flock, this tribe will die. Does it sound implausible that anyone would cause such predicament due to an inability to deal with boredom? Let me put it another way: How many of our problems are due to our inability to sit with boredom? Let me be clearer: Where do you think you would be if you never had a problem with boredom? What classes could you have taken? What books could you have read? What could you have learned? It would be no different from a superpower. Making peace with boredom would be like unlocking your full potential.

Isaac Newton contributed to science more than any one person, and he did it through sitting with boredom. Before modern equipment and automated computing, discoveries had to be made through the human mind, in pristine solitude. Nobel laureate Bertrand Russell called this process "fruitful monotony." Rather than dramatic obstacles, it's mundane boredom that stops us from living to our potentials.

Why does the story of a tribe losing their flock to boredom seem unreasonable? Because boredom is a privilege. It exists in a vacuum of gratitude—as a byproduct of having too much, not from having too little. A nomadic tribe might not have that privilege, but we do.

Comedian-philosopher Louis C.K. once told an audience: