When Did We Stop Doing Things Badly?
As an emergency medicine specialist, I have spent a good part of my working life in a profession where being really bad at something is generally discouraged. There are certain moments when “Well, I’ve never tried this before, but it looks fun” is not particularly reassuring to anyone in the room. Fair enough. There are careers, and definitely moments within careers, where competence is rather important. I am quite happy that the pilot flying my plane is not using the flight as an opportunity to explore a new interest. And I suspect most of you feel roughly the same way about the person repairing your brakes. Outside the emergency department, though, I wonder when being bad at something became something we started avoiding.
Think about it. As kids, we were terrible at almost everything before we became even remotely good at it. We fell off bikes. We missed the ball. Our first attempts at drawing people produced creatures with enormous heads and arms coming directly out of their necks. We sang loudly despite having only a passing relationship with the actual notes. We tried things because they looked interesting, because somebody else was doing them, or because we simply wanted to see what happened. Nobody expected us to be particularly good. More importantly, neither did we. We just kept doing things.
Somewhere along the way, many of us stopped.
As adults, we tend to drift toward things we already know how to do. There is comfort in competence. It feels good to know the rules, understand what is expected and not look ridiculous while doing it. We know which sports we play, what we cook, what we are good at and, perhaps even more firmly, what we are not good at. So we stay inside a surprisingly small circle of things where we feel reasonably capable. The problem is that staying inside that comfortable little circle also removes something rather wonderful: the experience of being a beginner.
When was the last time you did something you were genuinely bad at? Not something you were trying to master. Not another goal. Not something destined for Strava, a certificate, a competition or a carefully documented social-media post. Just something unfamiliar enough that you had to concentrate, laugh at yourself, ask someone for help and occasionally wonder what on earth your hands or feet were doing.
Try skating if you don't skate. Draw something if you don't draw. Learn three chords on a guitar. Try pickleball and discover that apparently the little plastic ball has its own ideas. Cook something you have never cooked. Take a dance class and stand confidently in the wrong direction. Try cross-country skiing and discover that two very skinny pieces of wood attached to your feet do not automatically agree about where you are going. The point isn't really which one you choose. It is putting yourself somewhere unfamiliar enough that being competent is temporarily taken off the table.
There is something important hiding in all of this. New experiences ask our brains to pay attention. Being a beginner gives us permission to explore, make mistakes, adjust and learn without already knowing where we are going. There is humility in that. There is curiosity in it too. And somewhere between missing the ball, producing a truly terrible drawing or heading the wrong way in a dance class, there is something else adulthood has a remarkable ability to squeeze out of the week: play. Not play with a measurable outcome attached to it. Not something we need to improve at. Just doing something because it is interesting, unfamiliar and, hopefully, a little fun.
So perhaps this week, don't try to get better at something.
Go find something you're bad at.
This week's challenge for you and your colleagues: What did you find that you were bad at... and just do it anyway? Mine was… singing, singing Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head with Burt Bacharach backing me up for a friend. She listened and said, “I never knew you could sing.” We had a good laugh when she followed that with, “Now I know you can't.” She is an experienced singer, so she proceeded to coach me. There are no dogs howling in protest anymore, so apparently progress has been made. Can I sing now? In the shower, Burt thinks I can. Probably best left in the shower.
