I Wish I Had The Confidence To Be Average
Why is 'average' a dirty word?
In my quest for “success,” I swat away the possibility of average like it’s an insult.
Since when did being average carry such a sting, an unspoken stigma, an unshakeable weight?
I long for the freedom of not caring whether I’m good enough. Trying so damn hard all the time is exhausting, and for what - the chance of being better than average?
Why can’t I accept average?
I initially wrote, “Why can’t I settle for average?” That in itself is telling, as if being average is something we settle for but not something we aspire to.
By the law of averages, most of us are average. There is nothing wrong with average, yet I expect more from myself.
Most of my friends are average people who live in average houses and do average jobs. But you know what isn’t average about them? Their hearts and souls are off-the-charts exceptional. They sprinkle and sparkle in ways the top percentile of humankind could only dream of.
Is it about relevance?
If we’re not relevant, are we irrelevant?
Within my core, I carry a rock of irrelevance. A primal belief that burdens me with feelings of being worthless and unwanted. And so logically, the only way to push this boulder away from my heart is by becoming relevant and being an above-average person.
But irrelevance and relevance are not the dichotomy I’ve built them to be.
I tell myself that it’s okay to be part of the crowd. I don’t need to stand out and dazzle like a diamond. Sometimes, being a piece of coal brings more warmth and meaning anyway.
Irrationally, I believe my cloak of average is like a cape of invisibility.
I recently failed to complete a big race. I’d spent months preparing for it and had to pull out halfway, the dreaded DNF (did not finish).
I wasn’t just looking to finish it, but to compete at the sharp end. I wanted to be a contender for a podium place. Because - you know - I have to show the world I’m relevant. But would a podium place have made me a better person? A kinder person?
As it stands, my DNF sent me spiraling down, questioning my life choices and smashing my confidence into smithereens. I found myself retreating from the world’s glare to metaphorically (and sometimes literally) hide under my duvet.
It’s okay to be an also-ran in a race.
I tell myself this, and then the gremlin who lives under the rock in my soul tells me I am worthless and irrelevant and I must prove myself. I must earn my place in this world by proving again and again that I am not average.
Does my nervous system associate being average with annihilation?
I’ve always been a busy person. My days were filled with purpose, drive, and productivity—no time to stop, busy, busy, busy.
Did you know feeling the need to keep busy all the time is a trauma response?
My busyness also meant I could evade my thoughts. And it gave me a sense of importance, maybe even credibility.
Have you ever noticed how quick Westerners are to say how busy we are? As if trying to prove our relevance.
Coming off my busyness addiction was uncomfortable, to say the least. My thoughts clawed away at my sense of self, and I endured a perfect storm of guilt, shame, and fear.
I’m learning to admit say that I’m not insanely busy and that I have a nice life balance. I have purpose and fulfillment, but I also enjoy a calmer, quieter, and less frantic existence. Yet, this still makes me feel jittery. I see my ghosts in moments of stillness.
The first time I claimed my “not busy” status, I received a few side eyes. When asked what I was up to with a lead of, “What about you, Ali? Are you crazy busy, too?” I took a deep breath and said I wasn’t; I braced myself for what may come.
But I didn’t go up in a puff of smoke; I’m still here to tell the tale, infact nothing bad happened. And if anyone thinks I’m less worthy because I have stopped burning the candle at both ends, well, that’s on them.
I know better, but I sometimes wonder if we can be above-average people if we aren’t busy.
Love can be conditional
We all want to experience that feeling of safety that only comes when we belong. To belong is unconditional. When we belong, we are accepted exactly as we are; no need to change, fix our flaws, or hide our quirks.
If we don’t have an organic belonging, we may try to synthesise it by contorting ourselves to fit in. We bend and break for the comfort of acceptance and recognition.
For many of us, we need to achieve to feel loved. Perhaps our younger years primed us into believing that it is only when we excel that we receive approval and attention.
So, perhaps being average is an annihilation of sorts. It’s not just my imagination. Do you feel it, too?
Reclaiming average
I’m burnt out. Well, I’m recovering, but I did burn out once upon a time. My mind and nervous system are at loggerheads. I know logically that I am enough exactly as I am. No race result, random accolade, or social media engagement will make me any kinder or a more worthy person. And yet, here I am, still living in fear of being average.
So it’s time to reclaim average.
I am going to wear my status of average with pride. I have nothing to brag of to prove my worth, or try and win your favour. I am me, little Miss Average, and that is enough.
I’m just an average person, standing in front of an average world, asking it to love her.
As I grow into my crown of average, I hope I experience the levity that comes from the release of pressure and self-expectation.
To everyone out there showing up and being average, you fucking rock! Sod being abnormally normal, today is all about being abnormally average.
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