to pick losing fights

I remember the first time I tried to stop the rain.

A lot of people romanticize the rain, but I hate it for all the obvious reasons. It's cold, it's wet, it gets you sick, and it cancels travel soccer games. I was maybe eight years old when my match was postponed due to the miserable weather. I recall standing in the driveway with my arms stretched out like Moses, pointing at the sky and demanding the clouds split like the Red Sea. Perhaps if I looked angry enough, the heavens would listen.

Of course, it didn't. The Gods doubled down, and it started raining harder. I stood there for a few minutes, soaked and powerless, before going back inside, angry at the world for being so uninterested in my desires.

As a child, I never liked losing. I'd compete with my older brother in all sorts of things, whether it be wrestling, racing, or who could eat more food at dinner. Naturally, he was normally the victor.

Still, I kept trying. Not because I thought I'd win, but because something in me hated the idea of surrender. Even at eight, I wanted to believe that effort had power – that because I tried my best, I'd be rewarded.

But at some point, I had to learn that wanting something really badly doesn't obligate the universe to hand it to you. That some fights aren't about winning. They're about who you become when you refuse to back down.

I still don't like losing – that hasn't changed, and anyone who claims they "love losing" is probably lying to themselves – but I've gotten better at recognizing when I'm not going to win, and choosing to try anyway. Not out of delusion, but out of defiance. Because sometimes, the only thing you get out of a fight is the proof that you were willing to enter it. Sometimes that's enough.

Losing is never the worst outcome. There's value in the fight, even when it ends badly. Even if it keeps raining.

Because maybe the point isn't to stop the rain or avoid it. Maybe the point is to stand there anyway.