Mary Shelley knew something about fractured minds—she wrote *Frankenstein* while wrestling with grief and displacement—so her observation cuts deeper than simple motivational wisdom. A steady purpose doesn't calm us by making life easier; rather, it gives the restless part of our brain something legitimate to chew on, crowding out the circular anxieties that feed on idleness. A parent returning to school at forty, or someone training for a race after illness, discovers this: the mind stops manufacturing phantom worries once it has real work to do. Tranquility, by her measure, isn't about achieving peace—it's about being too purposefully occupied to manufacture turmoil.