"You don't really want to go home."

When I was in high school, I participated in a competing marching band circuit over my summers. I remember one year -- my last year? -- how I had a very bad day and complained to Rocky, my boyfriend at the time, about how much I wanted to go home.

You want to know what he told me? "You don't really want to go home. You want that because you think it's too difficult here." He was right. It was difficult, it was challenging. And I kept on going back for more.

Day Zero of basic training, I cried. No, scratch that, I bawled my eyes out. My hair had fallen out of my bun and touched my collar. I had three drill sergeants in my face, screaming. I was quite literally paralyzed in fear. All through basic training, Rocky's words became my mantra even though letters from him were rare. I stuck it out, I hung in there, I didn't give up. In nine weeks, I ripped the skin off of my fingertips, I had shin splints so bad that I was on crutches, I cut off all of my hair, I fell during a group run, and I injured my elbow. But I didn't give up.

At graduation, one of the drill sergeants told my mom how proud he was of me. They didn't think I was going to make it.

Since then, whenever things get rough I think about Rocky's words, how I got up and kept running after I fell, and what the drill sergeant said to Mom.

Sometimes it's comforting, sometimes it doesn't feel like it's enough.

Lately I've been having those "gosh, I really just want to go home" days. My roommates are going crazy about dust bunnies under my bed, my supervisors get themselves and everyone else all worked up about things that really aren't all that important, and I'm probably going to make another grown man cry.

It's not easy. It's not comfortable. It's definitely not how most would choose to live their lives. And yet, it's mine. All I can do is do the best I can. How good is good enough?