When I was in the fifth grade, the local neighborhood school I had been attending closed down. Instead of walking to school each day, my siblings and I were bused to a different school.
Entering a new school mid-season is always tough, especially when you are young and want to fit in. I don’t know that I had enough sense to be afraid of trying something new — which is one advantage of being ten.
So at recess, I stood in line with a group of kids waiting to get picked for basketball teams.
And I was always picked last — if I was picked at all.
It’s interesting that this is the memory that stands out: not being chosen.
That Christmas, I asked my parents for a basketball hoop, which was attached above our garage. From then on, every day after school and throughout the hot Arizona summer, I practiced.
I practiced so much, in fact, that my skin turned several shades darker. No spray tan needed.
The next school year started, and I came back prepared.
Eventually, someone called my name — and whoosh, I made a basket. Then whoosh, I made another one.
Before long, I was either captain or chosen first almost every day.
Now fast-forward to seventh grade.
One. Year. Later.
I was on the junior-high basketball team. My friend Brandon Mack and I were the only two scrawny white players on the team.
We mostly sat on the bench and watched while the eighth graders and the better players played.
Then the tournament arrived, and something amazing happened.
Brandon and I went from third-stringers to starters.
Two words: academic ineligibility.
It was less of a promotion than an administrative emergency.
So there we were. We had barely played all season, and now we were starting in the tournament.
Our teammates who could not play sat on the sidelines cheering us on while we tried to figure out what we were doing.
At one point, I stepped on the endline while trying to inbound the ball after the other team had scored.
For anyone who knows basketball, that is a very basic rule.
Yes. That was how inexperienced I was.
I don’t remember the final score. But there is no way we won.
What I remember is my teammates cheering for us.
There were two lessons in those experiences.
The first was that if I worked hard enough, I could become good enough to be chosen.
The second was that people might still cheer for me while I was struggling and getting things wrong.
I carried the first lesson for years.
The second took much longer to understand.
I grew up in the era of “Just do it.”
Above my bed was a poster of a soccer goalkeeper diving for a ball. It read:
Some succeed because they are destined to. Most succeed because they are determined to.
How many of you resonate with some version of that message?
I know I still do.
Just do it. Try harder. Believe in yourself. Never quit.
I love that message. Hard work matters.
And it does.
But when hard work and determination become entangled with the belief that everything must be perfect, it can stop being fuel and become armor.
Brené Brown describes perfectionism as a kind of armor.
It is not simply wanting to do well. It is believing that if we do everything perfectly, we can protect ourselves from criticism, rejection, and shame.
What if they don’t like me?
What if I’m not chosen?
I recognize that armor in my writing.
I can revise a story because I want to make it better. But I can also revise it endlessly because I’m afraid to let anyone read it.
Perfectionism does not always improve the work.
Sometimes it simply keeps the work hidden.
My break from Toastmasters was not caused by perfectionism. But when I returned, I did not want my first speech back to be just any speech.
I wanted the right speech.
Meaningful.
Polished.
Worthy of the wait.
The more I searched for an idea that felt good enough, the harder it became to begin.
That is the strange thing about perfectionism.
It does not always look like fear.
Sometimes it looks like high standards.
Sometimes it even looks polished.
But underneath, it can be paralysis.
Perfectionism says “Wait until you are certain you will succeed.” Courage says “Take the court knowing that you might not.”
I am certain this speech is not perfect.
But perfection is the enemy of finished.
It is the enemy of shared.
And too often, it is the enemy of progress.
Taking off the armor does not mean that we stop trying.
It means that perfection is no longer the price of participating.
Sometimes we will miss the shot.
Sometimes we may step on the endline before we even get the ball into play.
But courage is taking the court anyway.
I used to think the most important part of my basketball story was finally being chosen first.
Now I think it may have been seeing my teammates in the stands, cheering while Brandon and I struggled through the game.
So take the court.
Miss a shot.
Learn the rules.
And when someone else does the same — imperfect and still trying — be one of the people in the stands, cheering them on.