The Pleasure Is in the Effort

One Street, and Two Lives I Do Not Know

Walking along a street in Shanghai, I was struck by the sight of a woman pushing a cart piled high with empty plastic bottles. There were so many that I estimated, by eye, perhaps a thousand; I did not count them, but their bulk was enough to make pushing the cart hard work. It seemed to me that she was collecting them from bins on the street corners. Then I saw another woman carrying a stack of cardboard, gathering what she could from shops and their surroundings.

On the same street, global brands' shopfronts opened onto a different life: elegant products, convenient service, and a woman entering one of those shops. Between a cart carrying things their owners had discarded and a shop selling things people longed to own, I paused at a question that was not only about prices: what makes a person feel they are living their day rather than merely passing through it?

A tempting thought occurred to me: perhaps the woman with the cart sleeps deeply at night after her exertion, while someone who owns a great deal cannot sleep. But I do not know either person's night. I do not know their debts, health, or relationships, or what each woman carried into that street that did not show on her face. The scene was an opening for a question, not an answer about the lives of the women I saw.

What I know from my own experience is something else, captured by a phrase I repeat: “The pleasure is in the effort.” The Arabic word I use, al-ʿathrah, usually evokes a stumble; here, in the sense I intend in my Emirati speech, it means the exertion I put into something I am working towards. Moving, trying, learning, and then finding a trace of what I have done. Sometimes the effort is part of what makes an experience beautiful, even when it is not comfortable at the time.

Why do we pay to spare ourselves some effort, then pay again to exert ourselves at a gym? What distinguishes exertion that drains us from exertion that gives our day flavour? Has convenience taken away some opportunities to participate in our own lives? And how can we teach our children to bear difficulty without confusing upbringing with harshness or turning every day into a test of endurance?

1. The Convenience That Gives Us Time, and What We Do with That Time

A washing machine is a blessing, and so is a lift; someone who helps us at home or work provides a service deserving respect and fair pay. We need not deny the value of these things to question our relationship with them. The question begins once convenience is available: what have we done with the time and capacity it freed for us? Have we invested them in a relationship, learning, or movement, or has the whole day's aim become needing as little participation as possible?

There is a difference between asking someone to carry a heavy bag because we cannot manage it and becoming accustomed to waiting for someone to carry every light object despite being able to do so ourselves. We cannot judge people from a snapshot; a request for help may conceal an unseen need. The point is for each of us to ask ourselves: which service do I genuinely need, and which small action can I reclaim to remain present in the details of my life?

We can buy a meal, but preparing a simple meal for someone we love gives us a different experience. We can buy a beautiful plant, but caring for it makes us notice what it needs over the days. We can delegate an entire trip's arrangements, but involving children in some of the planning lets them learn something that does not come with a hotel reservation: how to turn a general wish into steps, and how to handle details that do not go as expected.

This is not a contest between a paid service and doing things ourselves. Each has its place. The time we save by delegating may be precisely what allows us to sit with a child, visit a parent, or rest after an exhausting day. I therefore do not measure quality of life by the number of tasks we perform with our own hands. I ask about balance: do we still have a share in actions that let us see our capacity and feel our influence?

Abundance can offer precious freedom. But it does not by itself determine how we use that freedom. Someone with many options still needs to choose something worth their time. Nor is every unoccupied moment a problem; it may be reflection, play, or recovery. What merits reconsideration is the emptiness we neither choose nor rest in, moving from one distraction to another and ending the day without knowing what mattered to us in it.

Why Do We Love Some Things That Tire Us?

A scientific review by Michael Inzlicht, Amitai Shenhav, and Christopher Olivola, published in 2018, addresses what it calls the “effort paradox”: effort is a cost we try to avoid in some situations, yet can add value in others. We may value an outcome we helped create, or choose an activity because its challenge is part of its appeal. The review does not mean that greater fatigue always increases happiness; it rejects reducing effort to a cost alone. Source.

Suppose you learn to bake a simple loaf. Your first attempt may look less attractive than shop-bought bread, but you know something about it that you do not know about ready-made purchases: how much water you added, where you rushed, and what you will change next time. A small history now connects you with the result. In another hobby, that history might be a page you wrote, an object you repaired, or a distance you covered that once seemed far away.

The effort here draws its value not from the amount of pain, but from its relationship to something you want. If difficulty grows until the purpose is lost or no opportunity to learn remains, persistence does not automatically become virtuous. You also have the right to discover that a hobby does not suit you. The ability to adjust your path is part of sensible action, not evidence of weakness or of not having tried hard enough.

In an interview with the American Psychological Association, psychologist Paul Bloom distinguishes difficulty we choose from suffering imposed upon us. A challenge we can enter and stop differs from illness, violence, or a loss beyond our control. This distinction is essential if respect for effort is not to become an embellishment of lives whose harshness we do not know. Interview and transcript.

When I say “The pleasure is in the effort,” I want the phrase to occupy this space: difficulty with a purpose, whose amount can be adjusted, followed by recovery. I want to exert myself in building something I love while retaining the right to stop and rest. I do not want to use other people's pain as evidence that justifies leaving them in it.

2. What Happens in the Body When We Make an Effort?

It is easy to draw up an appealing table: exercise releases endorphins, achievement releases dopamine, giving releases oxytocin. But this implies that each activity has its own chemical button and that we can read what happens in the brain from a single feeling. The relationships between behaviour and the body are more complex, and even “hormone” is not an accurate name for every substance we discuss.

Dopamine functions in the brain as a neurotransmitter and has multiple roles. John Salamone and Mercè Correa's review explains that its role in motivation includes activating behaviour, exerting effort, and persisting in a task. Reducing it to a “pleasure chemical” therefore obscures important distinctions between pursuing something and enjoying it. This is a general understanding of mechanisms, not evidence that washing a car raises dopamine by a particular amount. Original review abstract.

Runner's high, meanwhile, is not a story of endorphins alone. In an experiment published in 2021, 63 healthy participants accustomed to endurance activity showed increased euphoria and reduced anxiety after 45 minutes of running compared with walking. Blocking opioid receptors did not prevent this effect. Levels of substances in the body's own endocannabinoid system increased, making them a candidate explanation; the study did not, however, establish that they were the sole cause. Original text in the researcher's dissertation, pages 5–11.

These findings concern a particular activity, sample, and set of conditions. They do not promise everyone the same feeling or make the experiment's duration a prescription for all. The broader benefit of reading them is to leave room for complexity: movement is a bodily and psychological experience, in which biological responses may interact with a sense of progress, surroundings, company, and expectations.

We can, then, connect some kinds of effort with what we know about mechanisms, while stating the limits clearly:

| Type of effort | What we can accurately say | |---|---| | Physical movement suited to one's ability | Research examines mood changes after exercise, with multiple mechanisms contributing; no single substance explains the whole experience. | | Persisting in a task towards a goal | Dopamine has roles in motivation and effort, but we cannot infer its level from our sense of achievement. | | Making or repairing something | This can carry personal value connected with participation and learning; we need not invent a “hormone for handiwork” to understand that value. | | Sharing work with the family | This offers an opportunity to cooperate and distribute responsibility; not every experience of cooperation can be turned into a claim about measuring oxytocin. |

This amount of science serves the idea better than a collection of names that sound precise without supporting measurements. You do not have to know the chemistry of a satisfying moment to notice that an activity suited to you added something good to your day. At the same time, that moment should not become proof that the activity treats every anxiety or sadness.

3. When the Hands Have a Clear Task

The problem you carry in your mind may be vast, with no visible end: what will happen? Why did they say that? Should I have chosen another path? Some small tasks, by contrast, give you a bounded question: where should I put this shelf? How do I clean this corner? What is the next step in the recipe? A bounded task does not solve everything that worries you, but it lets you practise another kind of attention and action.

Imagine an evening when you set aside some time to organise a drawer that has long been cluttered. You empty its contents, choose what you need, and put things back in their places. The major matters in your life will still be there afterwards, but a small part of the world has become clearer through something you did. This is the meaning I seek in work with the hands: a visible relationship between trying and making a difference, not merely passing time until the body grows tired.

There is an opportunity for humility here too. When we try to repair something simple, we discover that work which looked easy from a distance requires skill. When we share in cleaning, we realise that cleanliness is not a natural state to which a home returns by itself. Behind it lie time, movement, and attention supplied by someone. Participating may help us ask better questions about sharing that effort fairly and respecting whoever performs it.

We are not required to do everything or learn dangerous jobs to prove our independence. We can choose a safe, appropriate activity: making a simple dish, caring for a plant, organising tools, light assembly work, or caring for our possessions. With electrical work and tasks requiring special expertise, respect for knowledge is part of responsibility. Asking for help does not contradict competence; sometimes it is a sign of it.

It helps to distinguish activity that returns us to our lives from activity that postpones facing them. If organising my surroundings gives me calm enough to return to an important conversation, it serves an understandable purpose. If I fill every hour to avoid a problem requiring a decision, I may be putting it off. “Was I busy?” is not a sufficient question. Ask: what became possible after this work?

This is why I do not want to tell someone who cannot sleep, “Tire yourself out more and you will sleep.” Insomnia and anxiety cannot be measured by completed tasks; when they persist or affect life, they deserve appropriate assessment. An exhausted worker may remain anxious, and a wealthy person may know tranquillity. What we suggest here is part of a way of living, not a judgement of people who suffer or a substitute for the care they need.

How Can We Accustom Our Children to Effort That Helps Them Grow?

When I say, “Let your children get used to effort,” I mean giving them real participation and allowing them gradually to discover that they can do things themselves. I do not want a child to prove their worth by enduring more than their age permits, or to think that asking for help is shameful. I want them to know the difference between “I cannot do it yet” and “I will not try because someone will do it for me.”

In her talk about raising children without over-parenting, Julie Lythcott-Haims calls for giving children the chance to act and take responsibility rather than managing every detail on their behalf. From this idea I take a practical parenting question: does my help teach the child the next step, or remove their need to learn it? I need not turn an inspiring story in a talk into a scientific promise of future success. Talk.

The American Academy of Pediatrics recommends age-appropriate tasks, gradual progress, routine, encouragement, and supervision. This makes responsibility a familiar part of family life instead of something that appears only when adults become angry. Guidance on household tasks.

A young child might begin by collecting toys with an adult or returning a book to its place. An older child, depending on their ability, can prepare part of their school bag or help set the table. What matters is that the task is clear, that we show them how to do it, and that we allow an attempt that falls short of our own proficiency. If we step in at the first sign of slowness and finish everything ourselves, we may save minutes and lose a chance to practise.

Travel is a lovely testing ground for this idea. Before going out, each child can check age-appropriate belongings against a picture or written list. While travelling, they can carry what suits them without being overloaded or exposed to danger. An older child may help read a map or plan an activity's timing. Safety, documents, and essential responsibilities remain with adults; the aim is participation in the journey, not transferring the burden of managing it to children.

As children learn, we can describe what they did instead of judging their character: you put your things away all the way to the end; you noticed the mistake and corrected it; you asked for help when you needed it. If they stumble, we can ask what needs to change in the method. There is no need to turn a spilled cup into a lecture about failure or a small task into a competition between siblings.

Roles should also be distributed fairly. One child should not become the permanent helper because they are the most obedient, nor should housework fall on girls alone. Children see responsibility in adults' behaviour: a father putting away what he used, a mother finding others willing to share the work, and everyone respecting household workers. Participation does not diminish status; it tells a child they are a member of the home and make a difference in it.

They also have the right to play and rest. We should not fill their day with tasks until all boredom and every chance to choose disappear. We leave time for them to work out what they want to do, while remaining available if needed. A child we want to be capable of trying also needs the security to make mistakes without fearing humiliation or the loss of love.

In the Light of the Quran and Islamic Wisdom

The Quran contains a meaning that connects a person with their striving and responsibility without making the amount of exertion the sole measure of their worth:

The verse's context concerns deeds, recompense, and responsibility. It is not a promise that everyone who works hard will become rich or happy. Drawing inspiration from it in everyday life invites us to attend to the effort we make while acknowledging that outcomes are also affected by matters outside our control. We must not turn it into an explanation that blames poor people for their poverty or reduces a human life to how much it has acquired.

Aisha's description, may God be pleased with her, of the Prophet's life at home contains a meaning very close to our subject:

Serving the household was not a deficiency requiring an apology. This offers a practical lesson to anyone who imagines that high standing means having others do everything for them. A person can hold responsibility and status, then take part in simple everyday work. This does not prove they have no need of others; it acknowledges that they live with them, and that shared life calls for contribution and mutual respect.

Islamic wisdom also preserves the rights of the self and family. In the story of Salman and Abu Al-Darda, Salman said words endorsed by the Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him:

The occasion concerned excessive voluntary worship at the expense of other rights. From this meaning we learn not to make busyness a virtue that swallows sleep, relationships, and self-care. The striving through which we build our lives should have room for those we love and for the body through which we strive. On some days, stopping may be the responsible act, because continuing would take away from a right that must not be neglected.

An Objection Worth Hearing

A reader may say: this invitation is possible for someone who has time and choice; a person who spends the whole day working does not need more fatigue. They are right. The need differs with the life. One person may need more movement or a small responsibility, another may need their burdens reduced, and a third may need help that gives them any opportunity to choose at all.

This is why I return to the two recycling workers in Shanghai with greater caution. I do not borrow their effort to turn a comfortable person's life into a lesson on the virtues of poverty. Respecting their work requires recognising their entitlement to rest, security, and fairness. What I can take from the scene is a question directed at myself: what is my relationship with the things I consume, with the efforts that make my day comfortable, and with the capacity I can still choose to use?

There is a second objection: will we turn every pleasure into an achievement project? That can happen if we misunderstand the idea. We have the right to enjoy a view, a conversation, or a coffee without proving we earned it through exertion. Effort adds a door to pleasure and meaning; it does not close the others. We are not required to earn a permit to rest at the end of each day.

A Small Experiment in Reclaiming Participation

Choose one action suited to your current life. It might be preparing a weekly meal, caring for a corner of the home, appropriate physical movement, or learning a skill you have postponed. Give it an understandable purpose and a realistic time, and start with an amount you can repeat. Do not let initial enthusiasm become a promise of a packed programme that collapses on the first difficult day.

If you usually delegate the task, reclaim part of it by agreement with whoever helps you, without obstructing their work or making your participation an occasion to photograph and judge them. If you want to involve your children, choose a clear role for each and work alongside them at first. The aim can be to finish setting the table together, not to produce a perfect picture of a family that never tires or disagrees.

After several attempts, ask about the experience's effect: did I learn something? Has there become a time in the day when I am more clearly present? Did the activity add connection or a sense of capability, or increase a burden I do not need? Adjust in light of the answer. You may discover that a different activity is better suited, or that what you need now is sleep, support, and fewer commitments.

Then leave room for rest after the work. Sit for a while with what you made, eat what you prepared, or notice what you learned. Do not immediately shift your goal to another achievement that makes the previous result worthless. Some of the experience's flavour lies in acknowledging that it happened, and that the hand which tried deserves to be still.

The Pleasure Is in the Effort When We Know Why We Exert Ourselves

I did not leave that Shanghai street knowing who was happier or who would sleep more peacefully. I left with a question closer to home: do I keep a space in my life where I participate through my own effort, or am I content to receive ready-made results? The more I thought about my phrase, the more I found that it needs this meaning to be fair: effort with a purpose, proportionate to our capacity, preserving our own and other people's right to rest.

I want my children to know the pleasure of saying: I tried, I learned, and I contributed. I want that meaning to remain present in my own life, however easy life becomes. Having a means of comfort is a blessing; knowing when to rise from my chair and do something myself is another. We may find a particular flavour in a small task no one sees, because we ourselves know the distance we travelled within it.

The pleasure is in the effort when exertion is a path into a life we participate in, and rest is part of our ability to continue along that path.

Questions for Reflection

1. What small task did I enjoy before always delegating it to someone else?
2. Do I need meaningful effort now, or relief from a burden beyond my capacity?
3. When did I complete a task for my child that they could have learned with a little help?
4. What action can I practise this week to feel that I participated in my day?