On not being good at a thing

And how I convinced myself that it doesn't matter

I’m pretty sure it started at school, where excellence was considered the basic minimum standard: the whole culture of the place oozed achievement. If something couldn’t be measured by an internationally recognised exam, then it wasn’t worth doing, and if it was worth doing, it was worth excelling at. Looking back, it was a strange environment to create for a cohort of teenage girls, a delicate species already tending towards the highly strung. But it had the desired effect, if the desired effect was a frenzy of competition leading to academic achievement, followed by high Oxbridge attendance and a not-small proportion of leavers on beta blockers for anxiety.

That emphasis on achievement left me - and from what I can tell from discussing this with fellow alumni, many other survivors - with a sort of mental freeze mark. Attempting anything new is met with trepidation and then the almost-immediate abandonment of a project if success doesn’t come quickly and easily. If I’m not good at it, why bother. Even now, I’m often very quick to turn my back on something if I don’t immediately get the desired result.

And now, as Eldest Child has started to grapple with school and being a person in society where parents aren’t always around to fix things, I’m seeing the inclination in her to do the same: when things get tough, get quitting - which is faintly horrifying. It’s so often the case with children in that awful clichéd way: I’m starting to see myself reflected in mine - often at times I’m unprepared for, in ways I’m not expecting. Before I had children, I’d put my characteristic approach (avoidance rather than failure, at all costs) down to one of those personality defects I could shrug off. But faced with a child who might miss out on so much that life has to offer if she follows my lead, I’ve decided to attempt a more rounded and resilient approach.

I’m trying not to worry so much about the end result and concentrate more on the enjoyment of tackling the thing that’s in front of me, focusing less on how something might appear, and more about the value I find in the doing. Because, ultimately, who the fuck cares? It makes very little difference to anyone else (apart from a few poor souls on holiday, perhaps) whether my French grammar is up to scratch, or whether I will ever truly be able to nail a full set of press-ups with perfect form.

And it turns out, as it so often does with the sage advice passed from generations prior, that there’s a joy just in the doing. I’m never going to win prizes for my dressage moves (or, in fact, most basic schooling) - but the delight I find in just getting on the horse is unparalleled. I doubt I’ll ever have the technique to sit down at one of the public pianos in St Pancras - but the satisfaction of being able to idle through Both Sides Now while the sunshine streams on the keys at home is enormous.

Of course, taking the new, more sensible approach has taught me the inevitable lesson that school somehow never managed: that when you just commit to doing a thing without expectation and just for the sheer enjoyment, you end up doing it more - and suddenly you’re better than you were when you started. And sometimes, you even get good.