When I was 13 we had an assignment for art class. We all had 3 weeks to make a paper greek temple at home and bring it to school. While everyone else was doing a great job, I was struggling with mine: one column shorter than the other, unstable foundation, weird roof, the whole thing just falling apart.
Things got worse when my classmates started bringing to school their projects a few days before the deadline: beautiful, solid, sofisticated temples. Pressure got real and I was out of time and temple-less.
The night before the final day I cried, threw tantrums, questioned the meaning of art classes and school in general, and eventually gave up. I was ready to go back to school with nothing and get 0 points (which would eventually ruin my grades).
And then something happened. I decided to give it another try and build a simple, tiny temple, only this time not for the art teacher but for me. I wanted to make something that I really liked and enjoy the process. And I did.
The next morning I took it with me to school. I knew I would get at least 1 point (for the effort) and that was better than nothing. Not only did I get the highest number of points, but the art teacher decided to exhibit it in the school entry hall for two months.
I knew I had learned a life lesson back then. Took me a few years though to understand what really went on and what did the magic