The Case for Tapping Out

And the wisdom of retreat.

When I took this picture, I thought I’d reached the summit.

On Easter Sunday 2020, my husband, Mark, I and hiked up a Catskills mountain trail called the Devil’s Path. We signed in at the trailhead ledger. Some notes from other climbers mentioned icy patches at the top, but I didn’t think much about that. The early-April weather was beautiful, and the views were increasingly stunning as we climbed the mountain. We were glad the trail was a loop, so we could see new terrain for the entire hike.

At a certain point, we hit ice. Not a lot—just a bit on the sides of the trail, easily avoided. Then the trail got steeper, but we found level and ice-free spots to place our feet. The farther we walked, the more challenging the trail became. But we figured it was best to keep going. We had read that the path was shorter and less challenging on the way down. All we had to do was reach the peak—it couldn’t be far—and enjoy the relatively easy walk out.

We pushed on, feeling momentary elation when we’d reach what appeared to be the summit—we made it! Then we’d walk around a bend and hit another wall of rock and ice.

At 3 p.m., we still hadn’t reached the peak, and we had no idea how long it was going to take. We were losing sunlight. Our phones didn’t have bars. It was the height of the pandemic, when emergency resources were thin and hospitals seemed like death traps. If one of us twisted an ankle …

We had made a big mistake. Slowly and gingerly, we continued up the path, finally reaching the summit and then starting the descent. We reached the parking lot just before sunset.

As we settled into the car, I expected to feel elated and victorious. Yessss! We did it! What badasses!

But that’s not how we felt. We stared blankly out the front windshield. Angry at ourselves for our optimism and confidence—which we now realized was naïveté. Disappointed in ourselves for not recognizing that we were no longer in our twenties, or thirties, or even forties. We were well into our fifties, and we climbed an icy mountain at the height of a global pandemic.

We didn’t recognize what we were up against. We forged cheerfully ahead instead of turning around when things got tough.

In other words, we obeyed a certain kind of cultural edict to “never say die,” and it blinded us to the reality of the situation.

“Never say die” is an American mantra, one that comes up a lot on a reality show Mark and I like called Alone. On the show, ten survival experts are dropped in the middle of the wilderness, where they must live off the land with ten tools of their choosing—axes, fishing lines, hunting bows, etc. Contestants are responsible for filming themselves. They have no contact with the outside world, other than with a medical team that makes routine check-ins. They each have a phone that enables them to “tap out” when hunger, fear or loneliness gets the best of them. The last one standing wins $500,000.

The first thing you realize when watching the show is that the vast majority of us would be lucky to last a week in the wilderness on our own—all of the contestants, especially as the seasons have progressed, are outrageously skilled and resourceful. They create needles out of bones, fish hooks out of cacti, and chimneys out of tin cans found washed up along the shore.

Psychologically speaking, there are two types of contestants.

Some take the never-say-die attitude. Their goal is to win, and they are fiercely determined to stay until the end. “I didn’t come out here to just quit. That’s not why I came,” says one contestant. “I’ve watched people quit at something, and they regret it for the rest of their life. And not only that, but it makes it easier to quit at the next thing. I never want to go down that road. I want to be able to look at myself and who I am and say, ‘I did my absolute best at whatever I’m doing.’”

Hours later, rescuers pull that contestant, starving and dehydrated, from her shelter after she fails to respond to a call from the medical team.

“I’ve watched people quit at something, and they regret it for the rest of their life. … I never want to go down that road.”

This happens frequently—every season, emaciated people on the brink of organ failure are helicoptered out of the wilds of Patagonia or Mongolia or the Arctic Circle.

The other type of contestant would certainly like to win, but their primary aim is to challenge themselves and spend time in the wilderness. They still struggle with loneliness and hunger. They still huddle miserably in the cold for weeks in their hand-built shelters, subsiding on seaweed and squirrel meat. But they aren’t willing to risk permanent damage to their health for a cash prize and a reality-show title. Whether they win or not, they leave on their own two feet.

I’d like to report that the people with the healthier attitude toward the challenge are the ones who win. But usually, it’s the winner of the starvation game—the contestant who spends their final weeks huddled in a sleeping bag, burning as few calories as possible. These people are amazing and deserve their rewards, but I usually feel more respect for the ones who say “uncle.” They play the game, but they don’t let it eat them alive.

I’m trying to follow this example in my own life. I’m at no risk of starvation, but writing is an increasingly precarious career, and I often think I should have tapped out a decade or two ago. I’m still here, and I’ll keep going, but I won’t abuse myself. I won’t accept predatory pay rates. I won’t work for people who don’t respect me. If I have to, I’ll tap out and do something else.

I’m writing this as much to myself as to you. I haven’t completely shed the “never give up” mantra, but I can see how our culture’s fixation with it doesn’t serve us. It’s what led to the tragedy of Ruth Bader Ginsburg, who was celebrated for her never-say-die attitude until she did, in fact, die, and her life’s work unraveled in a matter of months. It’s what led to the current headache in the U.S. Senate, where the median age is 65, and where an ailing 89-year-old can derail her party’s agenda by her simple refusal to retire.

Dogged persistence is great, but there’s a point where it becomes narcissism—when you’re presuming that you are irreplaceable, and that the world somehow needs you to keep going.

On a recent season of Alone, a contestant has a moment of elation after killing a grouse. He holds the dying bird in his hand and thanks her for her life, which is enabling him to stay in the wilderness for another day. Then he reconsiders his calculation. “I’m getting a little burnt out on killing things,” he says.

The next morning, he spots another grouse within easy shooting range. He films the bird, with its shimmery blue plumage, strutting through his camp. If he killed the grouse, he’d have food to last another day. With a little more luck, maybe he could even win the whole thing.

Instead, he turns the camera back on himself. He smiles, happy to let the bird live.

Tell me about a time when admitting defeat was the right decision. Have you ever persisted and regretted it?