I think you should be bad at more things

and start asking yourself: who cares?

Photo credit: Jeremy Lapak

I want to run a marathon some day.

I’ve been telling more and more people this dream of mine. An insurance policy against backing away from the challenge, I suppose.

It’s usually met with a brief wave of doubt behind the person’s eyes.

When I was 7, I told my mom I didn’t want to play soccer anymore—too much running.

In high school, I played softball. Two separate coaches at two separate practices tried to gingerly imply to my teammates that there was “no speed” at 3rd base, which was where I stood, forcing a smile, pretending like I didn’t feel less than.

I long kept my marathon dream a dream because the slow girl who hated running shouldn’t try something that was so clearly not made for her. Big hope can’t transcend bigger hips. The only place I would be seen as a runner was deep inside my mind’s eye where I was constantly crossing a finish line, with two big middle fingers in the air to everyone who stole my confidence throughout my childhood.

A question has started meeting all of my self-doubt these last few years. A question that I think most people would benefit from implementing in their lexicon.

Who the fuck cares?

Little in my life actually requires perfection out of me. Not love, not the first draft of an essay (as evidenced by this being the fourth rewrite of this paragraph), and certainly not the speed at which I run a mile. Who the fuck (emphasis necessary) cares that I am not supreme at everything I do? These things only require me showing up and giving effort.

I think we’d start to see more art in the small moments of our lives if we prioritized showing up over showing out. So many of us feel swamped with mundanity at every corner yet turn away from any chance of creating something special when it comes with the risk of looking a bit “silly.” Whatever that means.

We sacrifice the beauty of exploration, the adrenaline rush of a burst of inspiration, for this imagined ideal of “great” and “perfect.” We partake in this fictional narrative about our lack of control over how our lives unfurl, about how can’t try something if we aren’t “special,” as if special holds any real definitive space.

We ignore opportunities to expand our world. And then we complain about it.

Moments when we remove these self-imposed limits on what we’re “allowed” to do—that’s where our souls are the most free. Anything we create then, whether it be a watercolor painting or a song belted at karaoke night or a 12:30 mile, is much more refreshing and aesthetically pleasing than perfection. When my body crosses that finish line, whenever I decide to conquer 26.2 miles, I know I will feel a type of limitless that will infect everything I do thereafter.

I’ve found the same freedom in scrapbooking, a hobby I picked up recently to commemorate my time at Camp Hertko Hollow. I bought colorful paper and ridiculous stickers and I’m falling in love with creating something just for me. I have a new brush pen and I’m learning lettering techniques. I’ve seen different ways to put together a page that I’m going to try in the future. I’ve decided my next project will commemorate my entire year.

To be able to capture and enshrine these precious memories, to show those who come after me what about my life I loved the most, and to give them something that will last long past a Facebook album—there is such inherent joy in the why behind my creating that I don’t have room in my heart to consider how pretty it looks.

I love art that lives in this moment, when its creator pursues an emotional purity before an aesthetic purity. That’s the art that speaks to me. That’s the art that with which I believe we can elevate into a better way of living.

If only we become more willing to be bad at things.

---

The Midwest Creative is a proud member of the Iowa Writers Collaborative. Please consider a subscription to my brilliant colleagues’ work to support storytelling across the state of Iowa. All of these authors provide content for free, with paid subscription options. Pick one or more, and help sustain this movement.