I was sitting on my living room floor last Sunday, surrounded by what looked like a crime scene involving blue yarn and a pair of very sharp knitting needles. I’d watched three different videos on how to do a simple “cast on,” and yet, there I was, tangled up, frustrated, and surprisingly close to tears. It’s funny, isn’t it? I’m a grown adult. I pay taxes. I navigate complex social dynamics. I can cook a decent meal without burning the house down. But there I was, completely defeated by a piece of string.
It got me thinking about how much we, as adults, absolutely loathe being bad at things. We spend our childhoods being “beginners” at everything—walking, talking, reading, riding a bike—and we accept it because we don’t have a choice. But somewhere along the line, we stop. We find our lane, we get “good enough” at our jobs and our routines, and we build this protective shell of competence. Breaking that shell hurts. It’s uncomfortable. And yet, I think it’s probably the most important thing we can do for our sanity.
The Expert Trap and the Fear of Looking Silly
There is this thing I like to call the “Expert Trap.” Once you reach a certain age, people expect you to know things. You’re the person others come to for answers. Whether it’s at work or in your family, you’ve likely carved out a space where you’re the reliable one. This is great for your ego, but it’s terrible for your growth. When you’re always the one who knows, the idea of being the person who doesn’t know becomes terrifying.
I remember trying to take a dance class a few years ago. I walked in, saw the mirrors, and immediately wanted to bolt. Why? Because I knew I was going to look ridiculous. I wasn’t going to have that graceful, fluid motion the instructor had. I was going to be the one half a beat behind, stepping on my own toes. We fear that lack of grace. We’ve been conditioned to think that if we aren’t immediately “natural” at something, we’re wasting our time. But that’s a lie we tell ourselves to stay safe in our comfort zones.
When we avoid being beginners, we stop the clock on our personal evolution. We’re essentially saying, “This is it. This is the final version of me.” And that’s a pretty heavy thought when you really sit with it. I don’t want to be the same version of myself in ten years, even if this version is “competent.”
The Myth of the Linear Progress Bar
We’ve been spoiled by movies. You know the ones—the training montage where the protagonist fails for thirty seconds, the music swells, and suddenly they’re a master. In reality, learning doesn’t look like a nice, straight line pointing up. It looks like a Scribble. It’s a lot of flatlines, a few dips into despair, and the occasional, tiny jump forward.
When I was trying to learn a bit of gardening last summer, I thought it was just: seeds + water = plants. Simple, right? Wrong. I killed more succulents than I care to admit. I had weeks where nothing happened. I felt like I was doing everything right, but the dirt just stayed dirt. Then, suddenly, something sprouted. Then it died again. It was frustrating because I wanted that steady “progress bar” to fill up. I wanted to see daily improvement.
But real learning happens in those flat periods. It’s during the times when you feel like you aren’t getting anywhere that your brain is actually doing the heavy lifting. It’s building those new pathways, adjusting your muscle memory, and getting used to the “feel” of the thing. If you can push through the plateau, that’s where the magic is. Most people quit during the plateau. They think they’ve hit their limit, when really, they’re just in the middle of the most important part of the process.
Embracing the “Ugly Phase”
Every new hobby or skill has an “ugly phase.” If you’re painting, it’s the stage where your canvas looks like a muddy mess. If you’re learning a language, it’s the phase where you sound like a toddler trying to ask for the bathroom. If you’re working out, it’s the weeks where you’re just sore and clumsy without seeing any “results.”
The ugly phase is where most of the grit is formed. I’ve realized that the people who are truly “talented” are usually just the ones who were okay with being bad for a longer period of time than everyone else. They sat with the frustration. They accepted that their first ten attempts were going to be garbage.
- The first loaf of bread will probably be a brick.
- The first poem will be cringey.
- The first time you try to fix a sink, you’ll probably end up calling a plumber anyway.
- The first five miles you run will feel like a cardiovascular mutiny.
And that’s okay. Actually, it’s better than okay. There’s something incredibly freeing about giving yourself permission to be terrible. When you lower the stakes, the pressure vanishes. You aren’t doing it to be the best; you’re doing it to see what happens. That curiosity is what we lose as we get older, and it’s the very thing that keeps our minds sharp.
The Social Pressure to Productize Everything
I think part of why we hate being beginners is because of the world we live in. We’re constantly told that our time is money. If you’re going to spend three hours knitting, you should have a beautiful scarf you can show off or sell. If you’re going to learn photography, you should be posting “perfect” shots on your feed. We’ve turned hobbies into “side hustles” and “personal brands.”
This “product-first” mindset kills the joy of the beginner. If you’re worried about the end result, you can’t enjoy the process of failing. You’re too stressed about whether the “thing” is going to be good enough. Sometimes, the value isn’t in the scarf; it’s in the quiet focus it took to make it. It’s in the way your brain felt after a day of doing something that wasn’t related to your job or your responsibilities.
The Psychological Benefits of Feeling Small
There is a specific kind of humility that comes from being a beginner. It’s a reminder that the world is huge and that there is still so much we don’t know. For me, that’s actually quite comforting. It takes the weight off. I don’t have to have it all figured out. I can be the student again.
Research—and my own tired brain—suggests that learning something new is one of the best ways to keep your cognitive health in check. It’s like a workout for your neurons. When you’re doing something you’re already good at, you’re basically on autopilot. You’re using the same well-worn paths. But when you’re struggling to figure out how to play a C-chord or how to code a basic loop, your brain is firing in ways it hasn’t in years. It’s messy, but it’s vital.
I’ve also found that being a beginner makes me a better person to be around. It builds empathy. When you remember how hard it is to learn something, you’re a lot more patient with the people around you who are also struggling. You stop expecting perfection—from them and from yourself.
How to Start (and Actually Stick With It)
So, how do we get back into that mindset? How do we pick up the yarn or the paintbrush or the running shoes without the crushing weight of expectation? I don’t have all the answers, but a few things have worked for me when I’ve felt like throwing in the towel.
First, stop looking at the “pros.” If you’re trying to learn to cook, don’t compare your kitchen to a Michelin-star chef’s setup. Compare your meal today to the one you made last week. That’s the only metric that matters. Second, set a time limit for the “suck.” Tell yourself, “I’m going to be bad at this for at least twenty hours.” There’s a theory that it takes about twenty hours to go from “clueless” to “okay.” If you can commit to those twenty hours, you’ll usually find your groove.
Third—and this is the hardest one—don’t tell everyone what you’re doing. There’s this weird urge to announce our new goals to the world. But sometimes, the external pressure of “How’s that Spanish coming along?” is enough to make us quit because we don’t want to admit we’ve slowed down. Keep it to yourself for a while. Let it be your little secret. Let it be something you do just for you, without the need for validation.
The Small Victories are the Best Ones
Yesterday, I finally got that yarn onto the needle without it turning into a knot. It wasn’t perfect. It was a bit loose in some places and too tight in others. But I did it. And the rush of dopamine I got from that tiny, insignificant win was better than any praise I’ve gotten at work lately. Why? Because I earned it through frustration. I earned it by not walking away when it got annoying.
There’s a quiet pride in being a beginner. It’s the pride of knowing you’re still capable of growth. It’s the realization that you aren’t a finished product, but a work in progress. And honestly? That’s a much more exciting way to live.
So, if there’s something you’ve been wanting to try—something that scares you because you know you’ll be bad at it—I hope you go for it. Be bad at it. Be terrible. Make a mess. Stutter through the words. Trip over your feet. There’s so much life to be found in the parts of ourselves we haven’t mastered yet. Don’t let the “expert” version of you talk the “beginner” version out of having a go. We only get one shot at being here; we might as well spend some of that time being pleasantly surprised by our own ability to learn, fail, and try again.
In the end, the yarn isn’t just yarn, and the hobby isn’t just a hobby. It’s a way of staying curious. It’s a way of staying alive in a world that often wants us to just sit still and be productive. So, go ahead. Be a beginner. It’s a beautiful place to be.