The real sting here is that Stevenson demands we measure ourselves not by outcomes—which we can't always control—but by intentions and effort, which we can. Most of us exhaust ourselves chasing visible results, then feel hollow on days when nothing tangible materializes, never noticing we've actually prepared something valuable for later. A writer might spend months on a manuscript that never sells, yet those months of disciplined work strengthen her craft for the novel that eventually does succeed; the seeds matter more than this season's fruit. It's a quieter kind of success than we're taught to want, but it's the only kind within our actual power to guarantee.