Recently, I took up watercolor. I started with a pricey watercolor set and high-quality paper to ensure my tools wouldn’t hold me back.

I spent hours at Michael’s pondering which brush was best.

There was something meditative about weighing the options, feeling the bristles, and imagining how each one would shape my strokes.

I started small, painting postcards. I didn’t realize at the time that working small makes watercolor easier. Controlling water flow on a large surface is much harder.

I thought I was a natural. I kicked myself for not trying watercolor years ago. This hobby quieted my mind even better than yoga.

But then, suddenly, I wasn’t very good.

Did I need heavier paper? Filtered water? Larger brushes?

Nothing helped.

When I lamented to my husband, he told me, “You’re in ‘the dip.’”

Seth Godin’s book The Dip describes the rough patch after initial optimism, where frustration creeps in. It’s at this point that persistence, or strategic quitting, determines success. It’s my favorite book to gift to people at the start of a new adventure.

Excited to order coffee in French, only to struggle with grammar and rapid native speech? The dip.

See quick weight loss, then hit a plateau? The dip.

Great freshman year, but now in a sophomore slump? The dip.

So yes, I am in a dip. Let’s back up and see at how I got here:

I loved exploring watercolor tools. I committed to painting daily and kept my supplies in sight, making practice unavoidable.

I loved painting because I (thought) I was good out of the gate. I could relax.

But then I tackled a 12 x 16-inch painting of the place where my husband and I met, and I couldn’t control the water.

It was going to be my husband’s Christmas gift, but painting it wasn’t fun anymore. It felt like a job with a deadline.

Partly because it was the first time the outcome mattered. And mostly because I was a beginner.

I started over and over four times, only to get more frustrated.

I needed to step back and learn the right techniques. In the long run, I knew they’d make things easier, but not at first.

Even after taking an online class, the techniques I learned felt unfamiliar and awkward, so I didn’t practice.

My art supplies, once left out as an invitation, sat untouched. Eventually, I moved them out of sight to avoid the guilt of not practicing.

You get the idea.

So now I have a decision: Slog through the dip and eventually return to the deep relaxation I first felt.

Or quit, leaving watercolor with a bad taste in my mouth.

No one is counting on me to paint the next Mona Lisa, so either choice is fine.

But it’s worth noting that when you see someone who makes playing the guitar, flower arranging or carving ice with a chainsaw look effortless, it’s because they chose to power through the dip.