Okay, I have a bit of a cold.
I'm gonna sound a little different.
Anyway, have you noticed how enthusiasm and trying often come with a disclaimer?
When we introduce stuff that we care about, we often preface it by saying something like This is so random, but I know it's cringe.
It's nothing serious just for fun.
I'm not expecting it to go anywhere.
It's like the more visible the excitement, the more we feel like we have to lose, and I have done this so much myself.
For example, over the years I've mentioned that I like to sing and I've hummed a few seconds here and there, just enough for it to exist, but not enough for it to mean anything, except i also released a song last year and i never talked about it again.
But the truth is that i think about singing oftentimes and what it would feel like to release a series of serious work, and saying that out loud feels like my pants are dropping on the street and people are staring at me in disapproval.
It would feel much safer shrinking the language and treating this kind of thing like a side note or a hobby or a casual curiosity.
Because admitting that you want something that has no guarantee of welcoming you feels exposing, and not just to others, but to yourself too.
Hyping something up and no one showing up or caring terrifying.
And we would rather stay small, and that way we can avoid thoughts like, who do you think you are?
Are you good enough?
What if it fails?
What if no one cares?
And this line of thinking shows up in ordinary decisions in life too.
You apply to university, one that you have pictured yourself at for years, and You're asked about it, but you downplay it.
You say oh, it's a long shot, I just thought I would try, not expecting anything.
And you add a small laugh and a shrug, as if you just randomly applied on a Tuesday.
Or you send a message that matters more than you admit and you reread it, you adjust the words, you consider deleting it, all of it, and then you press send and you immediately go into i don't really care mode.
You know, if they don't reply, it's fine, no big deal, their loss, i won't even be sad.
We use shrinking language, but the mind and body rarely follow.
And I don't think the instinct to self-protect is new.
What feels new is how visible trying has become.
A lot of what we do lives online now.
Posts on LinkedIn.
Announcements on Instagram captions that we look back on.
That we can no longer stand behind.
Public documentation has become the norm for a lot of people.
We know when a couple is trying for a baby, when someone is writing a book, when a colleague is looking for a different job, when someone is planning their first solo trip or trying to go viral on TikTok.
And we don't mind.
It's not embarrassing or a tragedy as long as it's a success story.
If that solo trip was a blast, if that book became a bestseller, if that risky text led to common ground, we will proudly leave a trace as long as something works.
In that case, the record isn't embarrassing.
It's proof of grit, evidence of persistence, A metal that we show off, but it may not work.
And then there is proof that you tried.
If you pivot later, the earlier version of you still lingers somewhere.
You know, at best it's forgotten, it's quietly archived, but it never fully disappears.
So it makes sense that people grow cautious.
And maybe this is the paradox.
We make what we care about sound smaller.
We wrap our hopes in jokes.
We call our ambitions experiments to protect ourselves not just from others, but from ourselves, maybe mostly from ourselves.
We don't want to disappoint ourselves.
And yet there is no shame in being seen trying.
Sometimes it feels uncomfortable because you can't take it back once you've said it, once you've put it out there into the world.
And it's normal.
It's what happens when you want something.
You make it visible and you accept the fact that the outcome is no longer entirely yours.
