i’ve never been the best at anything. ever. i wasn’t the best at math or even writing. i wasn’t the best runner and i wasn’t the best artist and i wasn’t the best listener.
for a long time this sat inside of me, this resentment of my mediocrity. not being the best was the same thing as failure. but here’s the thing.
i made a best friend in my freshman year because she knew more math than me and was patient enough to teach me. i couldn’t run but i hung back with the rest of the kids with asthma.
my art never changed the world but it once made someone cry with joy as a birthday present.
and my writing never made it to shelves but it carried me, and these bones, and my empty body, when nothing else sustained me.the best sounds lovely indeed. but i was born me.
and not being the best made me gentle and soft and loving. made me make friends who knew failure and who saw only the worst in themselves when i saw only gems.
made me listen and learn and not be afraid of falling. made me try hard and cry and scream and beg the world to be nicer to me.
but it also made me strong and capable and better at looking deep.and here at the bottom, i found the best in mediocrity.