It’s been a long time since I wrote my first-ever opinion article for The Nexus. In May of my freshman year, I announced a great goal to the world in large headline lettering: “My sophomore year won’t be perfect.” The article addressed my debilitating perfectionism in ninth grade and vow to reject it within the following 365 days.
In actuality, it’s been 898 days since that article was published, and I still haven’t completely figured it out. Especially now as I attempt to encapsulate myself to my extracurriculars, awards, volunteering, and essays for college applications, I still find myself worrying over the perfect balance of activities, the perfect phrasing of words, and the perfect story to plead my case to universities. And despite knowing that perfection is impossible to achieve, I often can’t help but feel insufficient.
Rereading that article the other day reminded me how striving for perfection has always been a large piece of who I am, whether I wish it to be or not. However, looking back to two and a half years ago, despite being no closer to perfect, I also realized how far I’ve come.
There was one day during my freshman year that I remember as a turning point in overcoming my fear of failure. That day, I was on the Westview campus, my feet buried two inches deep into the cold sand of the beach volleyball courts.
My decision to join the aspiring beach volleyball players at the open court that day was one of impulse. Since I was 4 years old and first stepped into a ballet shoe, I knew that dance was my first love, my truest passion, and my forever sport. Prior to this enlightening day of sandy impending disaster, I never considered playing another sport.
However, in my determined passion to conquer perfectionism, I sought out something simultaneously marvelous and terrifying: complete, utter, and hideous failure.
I knew I needed to practice failing so that I wouldn’t be so scared of it. So, when I stepped onto the open court as an imposter among girls actually preparing to try out for the team, I expected the worst. I expected to miss every hit. I expected to be circulated out of each round in an instant. I expected giggles behind me as I attempted to play.
Luckily and horribly, my expectations all came true. I was only fortunate enough not to fulfill my prophecy of falling face-first into the sand.
After the incident, I returned to my usual dance classes that night, and I was strangely overjoyed. It turned out that I needed a terrible embarrassment to know that failure is okay. I needed to horrendously humiliate myself to prove to myself that life will continue, and that it’s more than alright not to be the best. In fact, it’s even okay to be less-than-average at a lot of things.
Still today, I think that face-to-face confrontation with failure was what I needed to begin my journey towards accepting the mediocre, to tolerating myself in times when I’m only good enough. For this, I am grateful for failure. It has taught me more in the hour I spent on the sand courts than any words have conveyed in my life.
