These past few weeks have been a little different for me. I’ve been putting myself, intentionally but without great thought, in situations with people I don’t know well (or at all), or people I haven’t seen in a long time. I’ve put myself in places I’m unfamiliar with, doing things I’m not competent at.

For me this is usually a recipe for disaster. I don’t do strange situations and incompetence.

I went to Utah where I spent a lot of wonderful time with people I had met only once or twice before. With people I had never met. With people I secretly adored from afar. I spent a lot of time before I left Los Angeles worrying about what people would think about me. Would they hate my glasses? Would they think my haircut was all mom-ish (not that there’s anything wrong with that)? Would they notice that I’m not comfortable in my own skin?

I worried.

I had the same sensation with the clinical I started this week. I worried that my instructor would think I was an idiot (which, I still have plenty of time to prove). I worried that the patients would think that I was weird. I worried that I wouldn’t be able to do all the things I need to do, that my brain or my lousy hand would hold me back. I worried that I looked stupid or confused all the time.

Again, with the worry.

And both times something weird has happened. I just stopped. I stopped worrying.

In Utah, it just got so tiresome. I was exhausted from all the concern. I realized it was holding me back from fun. It was keeping me stuck in my own head instead of out enjoying the short time I had with those people, in that beautiful place. I didn’t want to waste that opportunity, I didn’t want to miss out on all that was available to me.

With this clinical, I realized and accepted, for perhaps the first time ever, that I am going to fail. I’m going to look like an idiot. I have to. The only way I’m going to learn is by making mistakes. It still pains me to do it, I still hate it with a deep burning passion. But I know that it’s necessary. If I spend the whole time worried that I’m going to do something wrong, I won’t ever try. I won’t figure out how to do it right, I’ll just make myself sick with worry.

For the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel comfortable with me, with who I am, with what people see and know about me.

I am imperfect, in fact, I’m a hell of a lot closer to a total mess than I am to perfect. And that’s okay. I know that I have no attention span, that my left hand sucks, that my voice shakes when I’m nervous, that I wear glasses, that I fall down a lot. And that’s what makes me, me. If I try to hide all of that, pretend like it’s not real, then I’m not being true to myself, to anyone else.

I think what I’ve finally realized is that I’d rather be me, than pretend to be someone I’m not. And I’d rather have people like or dislike me for what’s really here, than for the facade I put up for them. I’d rather just live than worry about how I’m going to do that.

Tears and fears and feeling proud
To say “I love you” right out loud,
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds,
I’ve looked at life that way.

But now old friends are acting strange,
They shake their heads, they say I’ve changed.
Something’s lost but something’s gained
In living every day.

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