Schechingers Never Quit

What’s on my mind?

Have you ever stopped something before you even began?

I have.

A lot of times.

It is amazing how easily our brains can talk us out of action and convince us it is protection.

Don’t try that.

You’ll look stupid.

You don’t know enough yet.

Someone else is already doing it better.

What if it fails?

What if people think you’re pretending to be something you’re not?

I have heard all of those voices in my own head.

Recently, I watched an Avatar movie with my family, and one line stuck with me:

“Sullys never quit.”

It was repeated throughout the movie by members of the Sully family. I grabbed onto it and kept carrying it around.

Then, over the weekend, I was mowing my lawn and listening to music when “Dear Me, You’ve Got This” came on. I love when that song plays. It always seems to show up when my mind is wandering, and I always stop and listen.

Between the movie, the song, and the thoughts already rolling around in my head, I kept coming back to this question:

What do I want my kids to see when they watch me?

Because they are watching.

They are watching how I handle failure. They are watching how I respond when I do not know the answer. They are watching whether I keep going when something is hard. They are watching whether I am willing to change my mind when new information shows up.

If my kids are watching me today, this is one of the things I want them to learn:

Schechingers never quit.

I like the sound of that. It feels strong. It feels grounding. It feels like something worth handing down.

But I also want to be careful with it.

Because “we never quit” can become dangerous if it means we keep charging in the wrong direction just because we started there.

That is not strength.

That is stubbornness wearing a costume.

There is a difference between quitting because something is hard and changing direction because you have learned something new.

That distinction matters.

A lot of the work I do through Iowa Worm Farm has become a direct reflection of the work I am doing on myself.

When I started learning more deeply about soil, composting, worms, microbes, plants, and regenerative systems, I wanted to sound like I knew what I was doing. I wanted to feel confident. I wanted to be further along than I was.

But the more I learn, the more I realize how little I know.

That used to bother me.

Now, I think it might be the point.

Worm farming has a way of humbling you. You can read, plan, build systems, buy equipment, take notes, and think you have things figured out. Then the worms, the compost, the moisture, the smell, the temperature, or the plants will tell you something different.

The living system gives feedback.

Not always the feedback you wanted.

But usually the feedback you needed.

Then you have a choice.

You can quit.

You can pretend you were right.

You can blame the system.

Or you can stay open, adjust, and keep learning.

That is the part I want my kids to see.

Not that I always know what I am doing.

I do not.

Not that I never fail.

I do.

Not that every idea works.

It absolutely does not.

What I want them to see is that when something matters, we stay with it long enough to learn from it.

We do not quit just because it gets uncomfortable.

We do not quit just because we feel embarrassed.

We do not quit just because we are new.

We also do not keep going in the wrong direction just to protect our pride.

That might be the harder lesson.

I recently found a comment on one of my blog posts that I had missed. The person said something along the lines of, “I thought I would be learning about vermicompost and worm farming stuff, but it turns out I am learning about life. Thanks for sharing.”

I was proud when I read that.

Then, almost immediately, I got self-conscious.

Should I be writing more practical worm farming tips?

Maybe sometimes.

There is a place for that. I want Iowa Worm Farm to be useful. I want people to learn how to use worm castings. I want people to understand soil biology. I want gardeners, homeowners, and curious beginners to feel less intimidated by the living world under their feet.

But I also think this work has always been about more than worms.

The worms are the doorway.

They take what looks like waste and turn it into something useful.

They work quietly, in the dark, without applause.

They do not transform everything overnight.

They stay with the material in front of them.

Again and again and again.

That is not a bad model for a life.

So maybe this blog is about worm farming.

And maybe it is also about learning how to keep going.

Maybe it is about compost, but also about what can be broken down and rebuilt.

Maybe it is about soil, but also about what happens beneath the surface where nobody else can see the work taking place.

I am still learning how to do this.

I am still learning how to write publicly without overthinking every word.

I am still learning how to build a business without needing to pretend I have every answer.

I am still learning how to be confident and humble at the same time.

I am still learning how to tell the difference between quitting and changing direction.

But I am learning.

And I am still here.

So, yes.

Schechingers never quit.

But maybe the fuller version is this:

Schechingers never quit on the work that matters.

We may change direction.

We may pause.

We may admit we were wrong.

We may start over.

We may choose a better path when the old one no longer makes sense.

But we do not quit on learning.

We do not quit on growth.

We do not quit on doing the next right thing.

And if the worms have taught me anything, it is that transformation usually does not look dramatic while it is happening.

Most of the important work happens quietly.

In the dark.

One small piece at a time.