Grit scratches. It roughs the surface. It scrapes knees, breaks seed coats. It is unyielding. It changes things.
Grit is tiny shards of glass, slicing through surfaces, glittering, sharp and bright. Grit disrupts.
Grit is one of my favorite words. In the same way physical grit scrapes and scratches, internal grit has the power to transform. Last week, when I prepped my Texas blue bonnet seeds for planting, they required all sorts of torture: I nicked them with knives, scraped them with the gritty fabric of emery boards, and soaked them in boiling water to increase their chances of germination. Without these treatments, the plants might stay locked in their hard seed coats forever. Never reaching their potential.
Internal grit, that power to clench your teeth and scrape your way through frightening, uncomfortable, demanding situations is like those sandpaper emery boards. Grit helps you break the protective shell that would otherwise keep you locked in: cozy, comfortable, safe, but less likely to grow.