Ally and I once rented kayaks for a two-day trip down the river in Kangaroo Valley with some friends. It started pleasantly enough, but soon a biting, chilly wind picked up, turning the excursion into what I call a "suffer-fest." I was exhausted, cold, and thoroughly miserable; Ally felt exactly the same. In the depths of our shivering, we made a solemn pact: we would never do a long overnight kayak trip ever again.
We survived the first day, dragged the kayaks onto the bank, and collapsed.
The next morning, the world had reset. The sun was out, the air was still, and the river was glass. We spent the day laughing and swimming, drifting through a landscape that felt like a postcard. As we pulled up at the final destination, I turned to Ally with genuine enthusiasm and said, "Wow, let’s do this again soon!"
I’ve noticed this trend in my life. Whether I’m trudging up an endless, steep hill or swimming through an icy canyon with the cold pummeling through my wetsuit, there is a voice in my head that mocks: "Wow, Graeme, you do this for fun!"
Yet, at the end, I always feel euphoric. I am consistently, stubbornly glad I did it.
I’ve researched this quirk of the human psyche. It turns out we are biologically wired to weight our memories based on how an experience ends rather than the average of how it felt throughout. The old adage "All’s well that ends well" isn't just a comfort; it’s a primal truth. If it weren't for this selective memory—this "survival programming"—would any woman ever choose to have a second child?
Now, when my mind starts to complain about the discomfort of a hike or the bite of a cold canyon, I have a new mantra. I tell my brain: "Hush now. Let's reserve judgment for the end."
