It makes sense to invest one’s time in hobbies that one has a natural aptitude; it especially makes sense when one is a perfectionist who will berate, demean, and even injure oneself when faced with failure or disappointment.

But perhaps a case can be made for the never-take-adequate-for-an-answer perfectionists, like myself, who step outside of their talent zone and dabble in those areas of weakness—not necessarily out of the expectation that they will suddenly become great in those areas, but for the sheer fact that, in the right doses, allowing oneself to be bad at something can be cathartic.

For example, I am the exact opposite of naturally athletic.You know that kid who was always chosen last for any team in PE, whether it be volleyball or dodgeball or line dancing? That kid was me, sitting at the top of the bleachers with a book and hoping that the PE coach took mercy on me and let me walk laps instead (sometimes, they did; I liked those coaches). So I expected my attempts to get into running (which was partially inspired by the non-profit organization I Run 4 Michael that matches those with special needs to running “buddies” and was partially inspired by years of my very athletically-inclined sister nagging me about not being active enough) to become a major source of frustration. And, in all frankness, running can be unpleasant for the kinetically disinclined. But, though my legs and side ached and my lungs burned, I found a few unexpected benefits from taking up something in which I have no chance of being “perfect."

Overcoming My Fear Of Failure.

While browsing the running forums for tips on competitive running, I often encounter the figure of the seven-minute mile. Supposedly, running a seven-minute mile is an indication that one is a pretty good runner. Perfectionists typically want to reach and surpass those qualifications that make someone “good” at a task, and I am no exception to this. So, naturally, I want to be able to run a seven minute mile. And, after months of occasional training and about a month of slightly-more-frequently-than-occasional training, of pushing my heart rate up to 188 beats per minute, of sweat and slight nausea and wondering if my knee is about to give out, I still cannot run anywhere remotely close to a seven minute mile. If I’m lucky, I might be able to reach a speed of 9 minutes 34 seconds on the treadmill for about a minute and a half; usually, I dock around ten minutes per mile if I’m really pushing myself, such as when I came in ninth place overall in a one-mile Fun Run.

And, for now, I am okay with this. Seldom am I okay with not immediately reaching the goals I set for myself, and seldom am I okay with placing less than third place in any given competition. But, never, at any point in my life, have I ever been closer to be able to run a seven minute mile than I am now; never have I been able to run as fast for as long. I may be “failing” as compared to plotting myself on the proverbial bell curve, but, somehow, I am not taking this as me being a failure of a person, as I am so often inclined to do.

I even signed up for a 5k to compete in next January. Currently, I can run (and, well, occasionally stop to walk) this distance of approximately 3.11 miles in about 37 minutes. I’ve convinced myself that a “good” speed for a 5k, for me, would be 30 minutes flat (which is still nine minutes slower than the seven-minute-mile pace). Maybe I will reach this goal; maybe I will far surpass it; maybe I’ll fall several minutes short (long?) of it. Yet, that agonizing tightening of the chest, that knee-buckling-inducing pressure to succeed, is not bearing down on me as much as it has with past endeavors, because I am slowly learning to forgive myself.

Learning Self Forgiveness.

I am, by far, my own worst bully; those middle-schoolers pegging me with Skittles on the bus and those high-schoolers pushing me into pillars have nothing on what my mind is capable of. “You worthless, stupid, pathetic waste of space!” it tells me when I make an 88 percent on a paper or get lost while driving. I’ve even been known to bite or scratch myself if I get particularly fed up with my inability to avoid any and all mistakes.

And, sometimes, those feelings creep in when I have to stop running for a pace or twenty to catch my breath, or when I see just how long it is taking me to finish a particular run.

The difference between academic writing and running, though, is that I have much fewer pre-conceived notions that I “should” always excel at the latter. That maddening disappointment in myself often arises from me thinking, “You’re better than this, so why didn’t you do better, you piece of…”

Except that, with running, I know that I am not necessarily “better than this.” Sure, I believe that I have the capacity to become better at running, but I am well aware of my current limitations. This makes it easier to forgive things like taking 50 minutes to run/walk a 5k in my neighborhood in 95 degree heat or not always being able to run a full mile without stopping at the speed I would like to run. After all, I am only a small, clumsy, small-lunged, weak-legged human, and I should only expect so much of myself. There’s even been a time or two that I’ve caught myself applying this outside of running; “You don’t get too mad at yourself for not running a nine minute mile,” my mind says, “so, in the same light, you shouldn’t get too mad about not being able to stay up all night to finish writing that poem to your friend” (side note: poetry buddies are awesome).

Yes, there are still times that I get frustrated with not being a better, fitter runner, but I’m getting better at giving myself credit.

Giving Myself Credit.

It is, for some reason, a bit taboo to admit that one is doing well at something or that one possesses a certain level of skill; it is even more so taboo for the perfectionist to admit this to themselves—after all, don’t I know how much better I could be?

Doing much of anything on a regular basis, however, requires some form of reinforcement. For those things at which we excel, success can be reinforcement enough—for things that we are not so good at, however, we often need another form of reinforcement. One of the most powerful forms of reinforcement is praise; when you’re doing something that most people can do better than you, this praise often has to come from within.

And, somehow, against all the logic of self-directed pessimism and criticism, it does. “Hey, look, you’re running two whole minutes faster than you could in elementary school,” I encourage myself. “Hey, look—you started running again, even though you had to stop and walk for five minutes.” “Wow, look how far you ran today, and in this heat, too! Way to go!”

Where does all of this positive energy come from, I sometimes wonder, and where is it usually hiding? Perhaps it arises out of sheer necessity—if I keep insisting on putting myself in pain like this, I have to get at least some pleasure out of this, right? Perhaps there are some parts of self-appraisal that perfectionism can’t reach, those parts that recognize how utterly broken and weak an aspect of a person may be but that witnesses that aspect functioning and attempting to thrive regardless. Perhaps it’s the same delight that comes from watching a weed spurting through the cracks in concrete—that weed will never bloom as well as it would in fertile soil away from hardened rock-paste, but it is blooming well enough to spread its leaves to the sun.

Because even if I’m not perfect, even if I’m not the fastest runner with the best endurance, even though I’m sure my fitter neighbors are giggling at me when they pass me on the street, I can still be pretty awesome at this, by my own parameters.

And we could all use a little more belief in our own awesomeness.