There's something quietly radical in Butler's grandmother's wisdom—not the tired insistence that labor justifies itself, but rather the suggestion that meaningful work contains its own satisfaction *independent* of external validation. Most of us have been trained to chase promotions or paychecks as the proof that our efforts matter, yet Butler herself kept writing science fiction for years while working menial jobs, finding sustenance in the work itself rather than waiting for recognition. That distinction matters enormously: it's the difference between enduring a task until you're rewarded and discovering that the doing itself is the point. A carpenter who finds joy in precision, a nurse who feels the weight of genuine care—these people understand that the work's integrity becomes inseparable from its reward.