When I was a kid, my mother would occasionally do my math homework. She wouldn’t do it because I didn’t understand it — that was something that I’d worry over and work on until I figured it out — she would do it when life was so stressful and overwhelming that I couldn’t do it. She’d make me sit there with her and confirm that I did understand, but she’d write out the 50 problems or whatever, with answers, in her perfectly neat handwriting (how I never got called on this by the school, I don’t know). It didn’t happen often, but it happened, and I realize now that this was an expression of her nurturing nature and wanting to protect me. It wasn’t a judgement or a criticism, but a moment where she could say “let me take this burden off of you, I know it’s been hard.” She did it because there were other ways of helping (ways that objectively might have been better for her and me) but that she couldn’t do. And she did it because I didn’t have the power, as a child, to fix the things that were making me stressed and overwhelmed.
Flash forward to middle school… In my math class we had homework every day, including challenging extra credit problems. And every day the teacher would announce who had the highest score on the previous day’s homework. It was always a race between me and one other kid in the class, a big hulking nerdy guy whose name I can’t remember, but who’s probably taken his startup to a unicorn IPO by now. I worked hard to be top of the class, not because of this guy (this isn’t a romcom where he shows up at the prom after we both have montage makeovers) but because I felt the sense of competition, of winning, and wanting to do well. Plus I like math and spreadsheets and being organized.
This guy and I were subjected to a lot of ridicule and ostracization for this by the rest of the class. And one day I remember very clearly asking myself “why am I doing this? Why am I pushing so hard on this when my only reward is that I get to feel more alone and sad than ever?” This was not my math. It was not the homework I needed to be doing. It wasn’t mine.
As a metaphor, doing this expresses something important: There are ways we support one another, show up for one another, help one another. But in the end you really have to do your own math. You can’t do someone else’s and you can’t have anyone else do it for you.
Being in the advice-giving business as I am, I often remind myself of this boundary. I can’t do other people’s math. Only they can do their math. If I decide that a particular calculation works for me and my household, that same calculation may not work for you. If I declare: These are my principles, this is my way, this is how we do around here, this is my boundary, my line, my limit, and this is the plan for me — it’s only ever for me and mine. If the advice is useful, it’s useful because it supports you in doing your own homework, it teaches you how to do your own math.
I’ve been working hard to finish my upcoming course, which is all about risk (both taking and mitigating) and it’s causing me to reexamine my own homework… what am I being tasked with and who is doing the tasking? When you are confronted with a knotty problem, ask yourself:
- It this even my homework? (You can only do your own math.)
- Am I letting other people do my homework for me? (Only you can do your math.)
- It is worth the payoff and should I do the extra credit? (Do the right math.)