The other day, I tried something new.
It wasn’t anything dramatic, really. No skydiving or tap dancing or speaking Italian softly into the wind. Just something small. Something I’ve wanted to try for a while but hadn’t—mostly because I was afraid of being bad at it.
And, in all fairness, I was bad at it. Impressively so.
If there’d been a medal for Most Enthusiastic Failure, I might’ve taken gold.
Little things like writing in new ways.
Learning the names of birds I used to just call “small brown ones.”
Doodling little foxes that look more like long dogs in sweaters.
Sometimes I think: This is terrible. I’m terrible. Who gave me permission to do this?
And then I remember: I did.
Which feels like something.
Of course, I wasn’t alone.
My toddler was beside me the whole time, offering moral support in the form of enthusiastic babble and the occasional crayon toss. At one point, he patted my knee with the solemnity of a tiny coach and said, “Good job, Dada.”
(At least that’s what I think he said—and this was just after I knocked over what I’d been working on, so the timing was perfect.)
And here’s what I realized in that moment:
He doesn’t care if I’m good at things.
He just likes that I’m doing them.
To him, everything is new. He doesn’t expect to be good at walking, or talking, or eating yogurt without redecorating the kitchen. He just tries. He fumbles, stumbles, laughs, and tries again. And when I clap and say “you did it!” he believes me—even if “it” was falling directly onto a cushion.
So, who am I to expect perfection from myself?
Why do I need to be excellent before I begin?
Why not let myself be the beginner? The mess-maker. The person who tries something new and doesn’t apologize for the learning curve.
Why not model that for the small person who’s watching me more than I realize?
So now I try things.
Sometimes in five-minute bursts between snack time and toy pick-up.
Sometimes with one hand, while the other holds a plastic dinosaur.
Sometimes, with no plan, no confidence, and absolutely no idea what I’m doing.
And when it all falls apart, I try again.
Because the truth is, being terrible at something in front of your kid is actually kind of beautiful.
It teaches them that trying matters more than getting it right.
That learning is worth the mess.
That bravery isn’t always loud or flashy—sometimes it’s just trying anyway.
Even if the thing you made is upside down.
Even if there are crayons in your coffee.
Even if you’re awful at it.
(Especially then.)
Be brave enough to be bad at it.
And if that feels too big, just be brave enough to start.
The CJBuzz 