Sometimes, I am afraid to be awesome. Don’t mistake this for
humility. I am, by all accounts, an extremely self-confident and even
egotistical human being. But I have occasionally thought to myself, “Hold back
a little bit, because you don’t want to make anybody feel bad.”
It has taken me years to understand that I can be happy for
friends who do something well, even if I can’t do that thing well myself. And
it has taken even longer for me to realize that my friends will feel the same
for me. We all have different strengths, and there is no reason for anybody to
feel bad because I can play “Oh, Susanna” on the harmonica, or fit my entire
fist in my mouth. I can’t do so many
other awesome things that they can. One of
my favorite new epiphanies is that I love having talented friends. It doesn’t
make me look worse by comparison. If somebody amazing wants to be my friend, I
look way better!
When I was in high school, my self-esteem was not quite so
healthy. I still held back, but not because I was conscious of other’s needs. Largely,
I was scared of being ridiculed. I was afraid of what people would say if I
always had the answers, or always came in first. And even more than that, I was
afraid of finding out that I wasn’t as smart as I thought. My solution: never
challenge my talents and I could never be proven wrong.
Sophomore year I joined the track team so I could spend more
time with my brother. He was the track star and my school was too small to kick
me off the team. I practiced grudgingly and only ran races out of fear of the
coach’s fury. My dad was a track star in high school and had been prepping me
for days on strategies to win the upcoming region race. But when I found myself
lined up for the 800-meter race, I was terrified. I knew I hadn’t put in the
proper time, and I envisioned myself crossing the finish line in last place, my
father’s face the picture of disappointment. “Poor dad, he has no idea how
utterly hopeless I am.”
BANG! The starting gun exploded in my ears and my feet
propelled me forward. I soon found that my racing speed was much faster than my
training speed, and I worked my way up to third place. I turned to see my dad
enthusiastically cheering from the sidelines, and I caught a rush of euphoria
in my triumph.
“I am so amazing! I hardly trained and I’m going to qualify
for state!” My sudden egotistical thought nearly literally stopped me in my
tracks. “Wait a minute; if I come in one of the first seven slots, I have to compete at State.”
My mind started racing faster than my feet. “If I have to go
to State, I will have to train a lot harder than I have been. And the coach
will actually pay attention to me. I don’t think I want that.”
I was now rounding the corner at the 500-meter mark. I again
saw my dad in the stands, on his feet, hands waving wildly. “He’s such a good
dad. I hope he’s not disappointed when I come in last place.” My brain won the
battle against my body. I slowed dramatically and lost my State-qualifying
position by more than a little. My second lap was more than 20 seconds slower
than my first. To an outside observer it would appear that I had simply
over-exerted during my first lap. I was the only one who knew the truth: I was
afraid. I was afraid of trying and failing. But I was even more afraid of being amazing.
Marianne Williamson said, “Our deepest fear is not that we
are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is
our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I
to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God.
Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about
shrinking so that other people will not feel insecure around you. We are all
meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God
that is within us. It is not just in some of us; it is in everyone and as we
let our own light shine, we unconsciously give others permission to do the
same.”
In an alternate universe, awesome-Wendy would put her all
into that race. She probably still wouldn’t win; she very well could have come
in last place. She could have tripped over herself and puked at the finish
line. In fact, I think that’s pretty darn likely. But every ounce of me wishes
that she/I would have tried. I wish we hadn’t been afraid to be awesome.
