hedging, and less of it
Increasingly, much of my personality relies upon a blend of humility, Selflessness (in the capital ‘S’ sense), and mirth of the cup-runneth-over variety, largely informed by my firm belief that I am, and always have been, soundly in the middle-of-the-pack: not exceptionally skilled nor kind nor impressive, but reliably proficient in a moderate range of competencies. Positioning myself as average outputs two primary benefits. One, I steer clear of the behavioral deficiencies that tend to befall egoists, such as developing a holier-than-thou attitude or posting on Linkedin unironically. Two, I exploit positive psychology strategies by managing expectations in a way that ensures I am continually and happily surprised by the contents of my life, which tend to be on par with those of the typical middle-class American (ie. nice and comfortable). The combination of intentionally expecting very little while simultaneously enjoying a consistently charmed life helps my brain emit a maximal amount of happy chemicals. On pragmatic days, I refer to my unexpectedly good fortune as “privilege.” On spiritual days, I call it the “Universe,” or maybe even “God”.
I think my motley competencies are well-evidenced by the eccentric pathways through which I make friends and the different avenues and activities that others associate with me. These days, I code-switch through a wide range of cultural environments: normie, professional, tech-coded, EA-adjacent, creative, Online™, stylish-ish, and my default state of being, which Spotify’s algorithm has classified to a tee: Gen Z Californian female who is apt to click on curated playlists titled “sad girl starter pack” and “[my life is a movie]”.
I’ve done enough personal work that I’m brave enough to take calculated risks and secure enough to actually follow through on my decisions even when I’m nervous about my ability to save face in the case of failure. This means that I can bullshit my way through most conversations, or at least supplement with YouTube tutorials in cases where my experiential knowledge falls short. But though I occasionally resemble a fully-formed person, in actuality, I am just a running loop of all the most noteworthy things others have shared with me. My lack of expertise in any one subject matter bolsters my sense of mediocrity. One of the funniest insults I’ve ever received was, “Britney’s not actually smart. She just knows words.” It was a hurtful comment, but honestly, it tracks.
I’ve spent the last decade or so building a case for my averageness because it’s a framework that helps me view life through rose-colored glasses, and also let myself off the hook just a little bit. In the extremes, it sounds like this:
“Never in a million years did I think I’d be able to accomplish this. Clearly, I don’t deserve this at all, so it must have happened only because I’m superbly, supremely lucky. I’m going to make a point to be extra grateful because this seems like a fluke opportunity."
OR
“It’s okay if I don’t try because I’m just not the type of person who’s capable of that sort of thing. I shouldn’t put myself at risk of embarrassing myself or wasting anyone’s time by attempting. I should just channel my energy into being content with what I have. I shouldn’t be greedy and ask for more. Desire is the root of all suffering.”
Neither of those thinking patterns is particularly bad, especially when you contrast them with alternatives such as feeling entitled to things that nobody is entitled to, or succumbing to a self-importance-fueled adoption of the grindset. For me, viewing myself as “just okay” has manifested in deep gratitude for pretty much everything I have, a minor case of imposter syndrome, and a restrained ambition that sometimes come across as selling myself short, but can also be marketed as being service-minded and eager to support. Believing in my mid-ness is part of the reason why I didn’t apply to “elite universities,” why I feel so torn about investing in my looks (when I could just work on loving myself as I am!), why I caveat my hobbies with an admission that I’m not very good at any of them, and why I’m not trying to capitalize on my writing even though producing work that people value financially would likely be extraordinarily fulfilling for me. But it’s also the reason I’m so enthusiastic about finding promising ways to use my limited resources to advance causes I find meaningful, why I’m patient with myself while attempting new ventures, and why I’m not overly concerned with status games or what others think of me. In a way, if I already believe I suck, your confirmation of it can’t hurt me.
My framework of mediocrity works, albeit shakily, and I’d probably continue operating under it for the foreseeable future if it weren’t for a single, pesky fact: things are going really well. Like, suspiciously, exuberantly well, so much so that it’d be misguided to continue believing that there is no part of me that possesses skill, or charm, or worthiness. More and more, I have the sense that everything is falling into place: my career, my living situation, my support system, my easy and natural optimism. As such, I’m starting to think that some of that has to do with me, and not merely the chaotic whims of chance. Maybe things are good just because they are good, and not because my expectations are low. Maybe things are good because I am good.
I’m reminded of the cliched quote from motivational speaker Jim Rohn, “You are the average of the five people you spend the most time with.” Personally, I tend to surround myself with people whom I admire and find cool (my friends), so it would follow that I also possess one or two admirable or cool qualities. The other day, while worrying aloud about how intimidatingly competent and intelligent my new colleagues are, I had the seemingly obvious realization that I might also be similarly competent and intelligent, or at least good at tricking people into thinking so. But now I’m hedging, and I’m trying not to do that as much.
A silly but true fact is that you are whoever you tell people you are. For example, when guessing my age, a friend said something like, “You look like you’re in your early 20s, but if you told me you were 28, I wouldn’t have blinked twice.” That’s the thing, it’d be pretty weird for someone to try to correct you on the contents of your own life, so it rarely ever happens. No matter what you tell people about yourself, they tend to believe it.
I always advise others not to pull their punches, and instead, follow through on the swing. For instance, I strongly believe that completing an action allows you to claim the label. That is, going on runs makes you a runner, making art makes you an artist, taking photos makes you a photographer. In line with my own advice, I’d like to take ownership of the full extent of my abilities. Though I still maintain that most of my accomplishments are simply a result of the circumstances of my birth (as opposed to innate or acquired worthiness), I’m starting to make room for the possibility within that, in addition to just being lucky, I might also be objectively proficient at one or two things.
In my more spiritually void years, it was empowering to have ultimate faith in whatever is out there. Now that I’ve progressed beyond the obligatory coming-of-age mindsets (teenage insecurity, emo phase, nihilism), I think it might be worthwhile to develop some faith in myself.
On that note, here are some positive qualities I think I possess and could theoretically find evidence to support, and that you will probably take at face value because it’d be strangely combative to question me about me when I am me (and perhaps a sign of deep insecurity to even care enough to):
I’m a good writer.
I design efficient processes.
I have excellent self-discipline.
I’m reliable both in my professional and personal life.
I hold myself to high standards, live up to them, and do so without resorting to the use of abusive tactics.
I’m really happy.
It’s easy to get absorbed in the stories we tell ourselves, especially the stories we tell about ourselves. For a long time, I’ve told this story: I’m okay at best. People tolerate me, but they don’t like me. I’m hard to get along with. I possess certain unforgivable flaws that exclude me from being truly seen, much less accepted or valued.
I think that fragments of truth exist in all of those narratives, but incomplete, unnuanced fragments. I’m not the same person I was when I first constructed my identity of self. I’m better, wiser, kinder. Since coming home, I’ve reunited with several friends, plus made a few new ones as well. Observing myself in familiar spaces provides a helpful measure of how much I’ve grown, and how much growing I have left to do.
Some recent compliments I received that made me smile:
After attending a potluck I hosted: “I like the people you attract.”
Over vegan Vietnamese food in the Tenderloin: “You just keep getting better and better.”
From a stranger at a circling workshop in Berkeley: “Do you know that you’re easy to love?”
I’m lucky, and I’m good. I’m good, and I’m lucky. It’s lucky that I’m good and it’s good that I’m lucky. Neither of these attributes are my fault, or to my credit. They are the cards that I’ve been dealt, and I am just grateful to be playing.