Latest / Still Standing: Stories of Resilience, Survival & Strength / Why Being Bad at Something Is the Bravest Thing You Can Do | Still Standing
Transcript
- There is a specific kind of shame that settles in your chest when you pick up a paintbrush and realize your hand doesn't know what your heart is trying to say. It’s the quiet, terrifying realization that you are no longer the expert in the room, and for someone who has spent years building their identity on being competent, it feels like losing a limb. Take a breath with me. Just one deep inhale. Hold it. And let it out slowly. I want to talk about where we put our sense of worth. For a long time, I thought my value was tied directly to my proficiency. If I was good at my job, if I was organized, if I could fix things before they broke, then I was safe. I was valuable. This mindset served me well in the corporate world, sure. It got me promotions, it paid the rent, it kept the chaos at bay. But it also built a very fragile foundation. Because when you define yourself by being the best at something, what happens when you’re not? What happens when you walk into a pottery class and your bowl comes out looking like a lopsided pancake? What happens when you try to learn Spanish and you freeze because you can’t conjugate the verb correctly? The old voice in my head, the one that used to run the boardroom, starts screaming. It says you’re failing. It says you’re wasting time. It says everyone else knows what they’re doing except you. And so, we retreat. We go back to the things we already know how to do, even if those things no longer bring us joy. We stay in the cage of competence because it’s familiar, even if it’s suffocating. Let’s sit in that for a second. I want to ask you a question that might feel uncomfortable. What did that cost you? The cost of staying only in the areas where you are an expert is high. It costs you curiosity. It costs you the ability to be surprised. It costs you the chance to discover parts of yourself that don’t need to be perfect to be worthy of love. When I burned out, when I finally collapsed under the weight of needing to be flawless, I had nothing left. No hobbies. No passions. Just skills. Skills are transactional. They are exchanged for money or approval. But hobbies? Hobbies are relational. They are exchanges between you and the world, where the only currency is presence. I remember sitting on my floor after quitting my job, staring at a blank wall, and realizing I didn’t know who I was without the title. I didn’t know how to just be. That emptiness was terrifying. But it was also fertile ground. It was space waiting to be filled with something new. Something messy. Something real. We have to be willing to starve the part of us that craves applause so that the part of us that craves connection can finally eat. I decided to try pottery. I chose this specifically because I am terrible with my hands. I cannot draw a straight line. I cannot knit. I cannot build IKEA furniture without crying. So, I signed up for a wheel-throwing workshop. I walked into that studio wearing my armor—my posture perfect, my expectations high. I wanted to make a vase. A beautiful, symmetrical, gallery-worthy vase. The instructor, this gentle woman named Sarah, looked at my lump of clay and said, 'Relax your shoulders. You’re fighting the earth.' I laughed nervously. I wasn’t fighting the earth; I was trying to conquer it. I sat at the wheel, turned it on, and placed my hands on the spinning clay. Within seconds, it collapsed. It slid off the bat. It became a shapeless blob. I tried again. Collapse. I tried a third time. More collapse. By the fourth attempt, I was sweating. Not from exertion, but from frustration. I felt small. I felt stupid. I wanted to leave. I wanted to tell Sarah that I didn’t belong there. But then she stopped the wheel and came over to me. She didn’t offer advice. She didn’t correct my hand placement. She just looked at my ruined clay and said, 'It’s okay to make a mess. The clay doesn’t care if you’re good. It only cares if you’re present.' That sentence changed everything for me. The clay didn’t care. The universe didn’t care. Only I cared. And I was caring too much. Shunryu Suzuki, a Zen master, talked about the concept of 'Beginner’s Mind.' He said that in the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities, but in the expert’s mind there are few. As experts, we filter the world through what we already know. We see a problem and immediately see the solution. We see a person and immediately categorize them. We lose the wonder of discovery. But as beginners, everything is new. Everything is possible. Every mistake is data. Every failure is just a step in the process. When I accepted that I was a beginner, something shifted. I stopped trying to make a vase. I started trying to understand the clay. I learned that wet clay is slippery. I learned that dry clay cracks. I learned that pressure needs to be gentle, firm, and consistent. I made a cup. It was ugly. The rim was wavy. The handle was attached crookedly. But it held water. And when I drank from it, it tasted better than any coffee from any expensive mug I had ever owned. Why? Because it was mine. It was born from struggle. It was born from patience. It was born from the bravery of showing up and being bad at something. There is a profound freedom in admitting you don’t know. It frees you from the performance. It allows you to play. And play is where healing happens. I know it’s hard. I know that for some of us, admitting we are beginners feels like admitting weakness. In our culture, we are taught to hide our ignorance. We wear our titles like badges of honor. We curate our lives to look seamless. But resilience isn’t about being seamless. Resilience is about being malleable. It’s about being able to be reshaped by life. When you try a new hobby, you are practicing resilience in real-time. You are practicing falling down and getting back up. You are practicing accepting help. You are practicing letting go of ego. Think about the last time you tried something new and failed. Did the world end? Did people laugh? Or did you just learn something? Most of us are terrified of being seen as incompetent. But I promise you, the people around you are not judging you as harshly as you judge yourself. In fact, most of them are relieved. When they see you struggling, they see themselves. It gives them permission to be imperfect too. Your vulnerability is a gift to others. It tells them that it’s safe to try. It tells them that you are human. And that is the most attractive thing you can be. So here is my invitation to you. Pick something. Anything. It doesn’t have to be meaningful. It doesn’t have to be productive. It doesn’t have to lead to anything. Just pick something you’ve always been curious about but never tried because you weren’t sure you’d be good at it. Maybe it’s baking sourdough. Maybe it’s learning to code. Maybe it’s dancing in your living room. Maybe it’s writing poetry. Give yourself permission to be terrible. Give yourself permission to be awkward. Give yourself permission to quit if you want to, but don’t quit until you’ve actually tried. I want you to find that state of flow where you forget to judge yourself. Where you just do. And when you slip up—and you will slip up—don’t beat yourself up. Smile. Laugh. Say, 'Well, that was interesting.' Then try again. Or don’t. Either way, you win. Because you showed up. You honored your curiosity. You stepped out of the cage of competence and into the wild, messy, beautiful unknown. That is where life happens. That is where you find out who you really are. Not the expert. Not the achiever. But the human. The curious, playful, resilient human. Take a breath with me. Feel the air fill your lungs. You are enough, exactly as you are. Even if you’re bad at painting. Especially if you’re bad at painting. Because that means you’re growing. And growth is always a little bit messy. Thank you for spending this time with me. Thank you for being brave enough to listen. I’ll be right here next week, ready to sit with you again. Until then, be gentle with yourself. You’re doing better than you think. Bye for now.