And the burden of being great at nothing.
My greatest wish has always been to excel at something — to stand out, to be exceptional. I knew it was unrealistic, but when you’ve spent most of your life being second best — or anything but first — it becomes a longing that seeps into your bones. The ache of almost, but not quite, is a companion I’ve grown too familiar with.
I’m pretty enough to catch someone’s eye, but never enough to make them stay. I’ve “pulled” everyone I’ve ever wanted, but holding onto them? That’s where I fall short. Like sand slipping through my fingers, they leave before I can prove I’m worth staying for. And maybe I’ve grown used to that — used to being a fleeting moment rather than a lasting choice.
I’m smart enough to be placed in advanced classes, but not brilliant enough to stand out among the truly gifted. Creative enough to create art, but never enough to feel a passion that burns through my veins. Talented enough to receive fleeting praise, but not enough to leave a mark that lingers. I live in this perpetual middle ground — never failing, yet never quite reaching the top. Always on the cusp of greatness, but never able to grasp it. It’s like living as a background character in my own story and if I’m lucky — the supporting character.
Even death seems to think I’m not enough. I knocked on heaven’s gates once, but I was turned away — not broken enough to die, yet too hollow to fully live. The pills that promised survival rejected me too as if even they deemed me unworthy of escape. It’s as if I exist in this grey space, where nothing is quite bad enough to warrant an end, but nothing is quite good enough to make me want to stay.
They tell me I’m doing well, but “well” is a consolation prize, a pat on the back that carries no weight. “Well” doesn’t win awards, unlock doors, or earn a place in someone’s memory. I’ve mastered the art of being good enough — of meeting expectations without exceeding them — but the burden of never being extraordinary weighs heavier than failure ever could.
My most hated word? — ALMOST
It’s a constant tug-of-war between ambition and limitation. I push myself harder, hoping that if I just try a little more, give a little extra, I might finally cross the threshold into greatness. But no matter how far I stretch, I fall short — like a runner reaching for the finish line that always seems just out of reach. And so, I stand here, caught between almost and never, wondering if I’ll ever be enough to break free from the art of being average.
But maybe — just maybe — there’s beauty in this middle ground. Perhaps being average doesn’t mean being invisible. Perhaps it means being relatable, grounded, and real. Perhaps the world isn’t built on the shoulders of the exceptional alone, but also on the quiet strength of those who persist despite never reaching the spotlight. And maybe, one day, I’ll learn that being enough — just as I am — is its own kind of greatness.
