Low diatribe

"Sucking at something is the first step towards being sorta good at something."

— Jake the Dog

I used to take pride in being good at everything I did.

Not in an arrogant way. Just a quiet confidence that whatever I attempted, I could do well. I'd built a reputation around it. The person who could pick up new things quickly, who delivered quality work, who made it look easy.

It occurred to me recently that the only reason I was good at everything I did was because I'd stopped doing things I wasn't good at.

---

The pattern was subtle. I'd try something new. If it came naturally, if I showed early promise, I'd keep going. But if I struggled, if I felt incompetent, if it didn't click quickly — I'd find reasons to stop.

Not dramatic reasons. Just... other priorities. Time constraints. "Not really my thing." The gentle drift away from discomfort.

Over time, my life narrowed to the things I was already good at. And because I only did things I was good at, I built the narrative that I was good at everything. It was a curation of what I chose to attempt.

---

This narrowing happened so gradually I didn't notice it. Each individual choice made sense. Why struggle with something that doesn't come naturally when you could invest that time in something you're already competent at?

The logic felt sound. Focus on my strengths. Play to my advantages. Build on what I was already good at.

But the cost was invisible until I looked back and realized how small my world had become.

---

I started drawing again about a year ago. Picked up a pencil after years away. I could see what I wanted to create — the shapes were clear in my mind. But my hand wouldn't cooperate. The lines came out wrong. The proportions were off. The gap between vision and execution felt humiliating.

I tapered off. Not a dramatic decision. Just... frustration. Other priorities. The quiet drift back to things I was already good at.

But I've learned I can selectively push through it. When I joined my skate crew, I could barely skate backwards. I fell. Got back up. Pushed through the awkwardness of being a beginner in front of people who'd been skating for years.

The difference wasn't the difficulty. It was the context. With skating, I had a crew. Social encouragement and accountability that made walking away harder than staying.

With drawing, I was alone. Just me and the gap between what I could see and what I could create. No one to notice if I stopped. No reason to persist except the discomfort itself.

I'm learning that I'm selective about which incompetence I'm willing to endure. And that selectivity has shaped my life more than I realized.

---

Pops put a guitar in my hands from the time I was old enough to hold one. I got reasonably proficient. Casual level. But when it came time to push past that — to really struggle with technique, to be bad again on the way to being good — I stopped.

A few years ago I picked up the ukulele. It was easy. Four strings instead of six. Simpler chords. I could sound competent quickly. So I kept with it.

I could tell myself it was about finding the right instrument. But really, it was about finding the instrument that didn't require me to be a beginner for very long.

I grew up skateboarding in the midwest. Hill bombing, mostly. Never learned to drop in a half-pipe or skate a bowl or even ollie. A few years ago I tried dropping in at the park. Bit it spectacularly. Have not attempted it since.

I could tell myself it's about safety. About being too old to risk that kind of fall. But really, it's about the embarrassment. About being someone who's been skating for decades but can't do what kids learn in their first month at the park.

Drawing. Languages. Physical skills that required coordination I didn't naturally have. Social situations that felt awkward. Technical domains that didn't match my existing mental models.

Each one, I had a reason. Each reason felt valid. But the cumulative effect was a life increasingly defined by what I'd already mastered rather than what I might learn.

The filter became: "Only do things you're already good at."

And that filter, applied consistently over years, creates a very narrow path.

---

I gathered experience. Experience made me competent. Competence made me confident. Confidence made me risk-averse.

Not in obvious ways. I still took on challenges. But only challenges within domains I'd already proven myself in. New projects, but using familiar skills. Different contexts, but same core competencies.

I was growing, but only along axes I'd already established. Deepening expertise in areas I'd already committed to. Getting better at being the person I'd already become.

I have to remind myself that I was terrified to take on people-leading responsibilities after decades as a hands-on technical guy. That stepping into that discomfort was one of the greatest choices I've made. That I can push through, in ways that matter.

But even that success became another axis to deepen. Another domain to master. I got good at leadership, but kept being unwilling to be bad at other things.

The cost of experience isn't that you stop learning. It's that you stop being willing to be a beginner.

---

Watching my grandson reminded me what I'd lost.

He's six. Autistic. Doesn't have filters yet. And he tries everything.

He's terrible at a lot of things. Spectacularly, joyfully terrible. He doesn't care. He's not performing competence. He's just... trying things.

I watch him struggle with something, fail completely, and immediately try again. No shame. No story about what it means that he's not good at it yet. Just the pure experience of attempting something new.

He needs help most of the time. Doesn't hesitate to ask for it. No embarrassment about not knowing. No protection of competence he doesn't have yet.

I used to be like that. Before I learned to protect my competence by only doing things I was already competent at.

At least I think I used to be...

I watch my middle grandson learning the same lesson I did. He's eight. Already building the filters. Already avoiding things that might make him look foolish. Already narrowing to what he's already good at.

I see myself in him. The embarrassment when something doesn't come easily. The quiet drift toward competence and away from struggle. The story forming: "I'm good at everything I do" because he's learning to only do things he's already good at.

I want to show him something different. Not by telling him it's okay to be a beginner. But by being a beginner myself. By letting him see me struggle with drawing. With guitar. With things that don't come naturally.

The best thing I can teach him is that it's never too late to be bad at something new.

---

The Japanese have a word for this: shoshin. Beginner's mind.

I previously wrote about shoshin in the context of building LEGO castles. How experience tempts you to rush, to build from memory instead of attention. How the assumption that you already know can be dangerous.

But I was writing about it as a practice within domains I'd already mastered. Building from attention instead of habit in areas where I had decades of experience.

I missed the deeper point: shoshin isn't just about how you approach familiar work. It's about being willing to be a beginner again. Actually incompetent. Actually struggling. Actually not knowing.

---

I'm learning to notice when I avoid something because it would require being bad at it.

The conversation I don't start because I might say the wrong thing. The skill I don't attempt because I'd look foolish learning it. The domain I don't explore because I don't have the foundation others do.

Each avoidance is small. Each one makes sense. But together, they've created a life that gets narrower every year.

The opposite of growth isn't stagnation. It's optimization. Getting better and better at a smaller and smaller set of things.

---

Re-embracing beginner's mind isn't about about abandoning my expertise or pretending I don't know things I do know.

It's about being willing to be incompetent again. To struggle. To be the person in the room who doesn't get it yet. To try things I'll probably be bad at.

The only way I can expand what I'm capable of is to spend time being incapable.

---

I'm trying to practice this. Small things. Things that matter.

I drew yesterday. And today. After months of avoiding it, I picked up the pencil again. My hand still doesn't make the shapes my brain sees, but I'm learning to be happy with the compromise they negotiate. The gap is still there. But I'm staying with it instead of walking away.

I started playing guitar again too. The one Pops left me. Pushing past casual. Learning what I avoided learning decades ago. My fingers still don't move the way I want them to. But I have to be willing to sound bad if I ever want to sound good .

Not just for me. For the grandson who's watching. Who's learning whether it's safe to be a beginner by watching whether I'm willing to be one.

Attempting conversations I'm not sure how to navigate. Trying physical activities that don't come naturally. Asking questions that reveal what I don't know. Learning how to ollie.

It's uncomfortable. I've spent years building competence, and now I'm deliberately choosing the opposite. My instinct is to retreat back to what I'm good at.

---

The cost of experience is the narrowing. The gradual elimination of everything I'm not already good at. The optimization toward competence that becomes a prison of capability.

The practice is re-embracing the beginner. Not as a state I pass through on the way to mastery. But as a state I return to deliberately, repeatedly, because that's where growth lives.

I used to take pride in being good at everything I did.

Now I'm learning to take pride in being willing to be bad at new things.

That's a different kind of competence. And with my grandchildren watching, a more important one.