Have you ever been compelled to do something you didn’t want to do, meet with people you didn’t want to meet, or be involved with something you didn’t want to be involved with? This happens often. Most people resist these things, discarding discomfort immediately.

Maybe you’ve poured your heart into a project at work that you hated, but after investing your time and completing the task, you feel connected—even proud of it—even if it’s something as mundane as a spreadsheet?

If you can work through discomfort, give your best effort, and stick with it despite your feelings, you might realize something I have learned: We learn to love what we serve.

Sure, we obviously serve what we love, but the inverse is also true: we learn to love what we serve. It’s a phenomenon as natural as gravity or the oxygen we instinctively pull into our lungs all day, every day.

I first learned this principle during my mission in Texas for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in the early 1990s, but I have seen it play out in the decades since.

In 1992, I arrived in Texas with a willingness to serve but a hesitation to embrace the work and give my all to the program. It was natural to feel this way; I didn’t know the people I’d be serving, and I was young and selfish. Only 19 years old.

I didn’t realize it back then, but I did what I normally do: I threw my best efforts at it. It’s in my nature to try my best. I figure if you’re going to do something, you might as well do it to the best of your abilities.

Accordingly, I threw myself into the work, obeyed mission rules, and kept the suggested schedule (bed at 10:00 PM, waking at 6:30 AM, and working the entire day). I didn’t slack off.

I was in pain for the first year. Obediently adhering to the rigor, yet unsure of the results. I knocked on hundreds of doors and stopped people in the street, asking if they wanted to talk about Jesus Christ. I taught hundreds of lessons to strangers on faith, baptism, and the Holy Ghost. I also read the scriptures assiduously and prayed multiple times daily.

After a year of this, I found myself looking forward to waking up early to study the Book of Mormon. I looked forward to meeting strangers and trying to unlock their hearts with talk of Christ. Each morning, I felt excited about laying the map of Waco, Austin, or San Antonio flat on the table in our missionary apartment, smoothing its creases with my hands and asking God for direction on where to find His lost children.

I sought guidance through prayer for my investigators, whom I grew to love. I learned to love the people of Texas.

When my mission ended in July of 1994, I wept. I was sad that it had ended because I had learned to love the people and the place I had served for those 24 months.

The same formula has applied many times throughout my life. I recently saw this phenomenon happen to my daughter, Grace. She’s a junior in high school attending an intense charter school—publicly funded but carefully curated by administrators and teachers who watch over it with exacting scrutiny.

It was at this school in the fall of 2025 that Grace entered her Microeconomics class. She had never even heard the word “microeconomics,” so unprepared was she for what unfolded over the following four months.

Her teacher, Mr. Collins, was a consummate professional who wore a collared shirt, tie, slacks, and wingtips to class each day. Having just transitioned from teaching at the college level, he decided to maintain that collegiate rigor for the 16- and 17-year-olds who had signed up for his class.

Within days, Grace complained about the intensity, showing me her lecture notes. Classes ran 90 minutes, and Mr. Collins lectured the entire time. Grace had pages and pages of meticulous notes; she said she could hardly keep up. She wrote as fast as she could, confessing she had missed many principles he had rattled off during the lectures.

That sounded difficult, but I didn’t realize the magnitude of her situation until she showed me a quiz. Here is question number 26 of 29:

Due to a faltering economy in the past year, a 10 percent decrease in income in Lithuania has resulted in a 15 percent increase in the demand for public transportation. Calculate the YED for public transportation and state whether Public Transport would be considered a normal/inferior good?

I graduated high school in 1991, and never, ever, ever had anything asked of me like this quiz.

I suffered through the class with Grace, offering flimsy support at best. I don’t know anything about microeconomics; I couldn’t stop saying that the class was insane.

Grace has inherited my tenacity. She kept going, taking notes and struggling through the onslaught of instruction. She often told me she felt like her brain was bleeding. Her biggest fear was failing.

I ignorantly hugged her, saying, “It’ll be okay. Anyone who actually tries will pass.”

The semester final was spread over two class periods. The second portion consisted of two questions and two blank pieces of paper. She studied for hours leading up to it. I prayed for her that morning, knowing the stress she was under.

Here it is:

That afternoon, Grace came bouncing into the house, beaming. She had received a C+ on her final. She did it! She passed!

Then she mentioned that several students in the class had failed. I was shocked because I knew those students had tried. Grace was right—she really had been at risk of failing the entire time. We examined the final together, reviewing its complexity and talking about her hard-won knowledge. She was proud, looking at the paper over and over again, much like I did with those maps in the early 1990s.

She had learned the principle: She had learned to love the thing she had served so valiantly.