“If you’re not slightly embarrassed by the person you were a year ago, you probably haven’t grown as much as you think.”
A few weeks ago, I stumbled across one of my old Facebook posts while searching for something completely unrelated. I wish I hadn’t. The first thing I noticed wasn’t the grammar or the design; it was how desperately I was trying to sound like someone who had everything figured out. The ideas weren’t entirely wrong, but the writing lacked confidence. My sentences were trying too hard, the flow felt awkward, and before I even reached the end, I closed the page and laughed. “Jessica, what exactly was this?” I muttered to myself. For a moment, a wave of genuine embarrassment washed over me. Then I paused. That post wasn’t evidence that I was a terrible writer; it was simply evidence that I was a beginner.
That was the moment I realized something fundamental that we rarely discuss openly: growth is almost always deeply embarrassing before it ever becomes beautiful. We live in a culture that admires polished results, applauds sudden success stories, and celebrates people who appear confident, accomplished, and effortlessly brilliant at what they do. Yet, we routinely edit out the uncomfortable season that preceded all of that polish, the long, quiet stretch of time when those same individuals were still learning, still experimenting, and constantly wondering whether they were cut out for what they had started. Perhaps the reason so many bright ideas die in infancy is that no one prepares beginners for the sharp sting of public embarrassment that often accompanies the acquisition of a new skill.
We Love the “After” but Ignore the “Before
There is a distinct human fascination with transformation stories. We enjoy watching people succeed, celebrating promotions, bestselling books, sold-out concerts, thriving businesses, and viral content because the finished product inspires us to believe that greatness is possible. What we often overlook, however, is that every impressive “after” once had a very ordinary, unglamorous “before.” Every accomplished professional was once inexperienced. Every confident speaker once stumbled over their words in a room full of people. Every successful entrepreneur once questioned whether anyone would ever buy from them, and every respected writer once constructed sentences they would later cringe at. The polished version we admire today is simply the cumulative result of thousands of imperfect, private attempts that happened long before anyone was paying attention.
From a young actress finding her footing to one of Nigeria’s most successful filmmakers. Growth rarely announces itself with perfection.
When looking at someone like Funke Akindele today, it is incredibly easy to focus solely on the awards, the record-breaking box office hits, and the decades of continuous industry success. What many people forget is that she did not begin her journey at the top. Her monumental career was built gradually, brick by brick, through years of smaller acting roles, continuous learning, public experimentation, and constant personal evolution. Success often intentionally hides its earliest, clunkiest chapters, making the final destination look like overnight magic rather than a long-form process.
The Real Cost of Becoming Better
When people discuss the mechanics of personal and professional growth, they usually lean on familiar vocabulary: discipline, consistency, sacrifice, and relentless hard work. While those elements certainly matter, there is another steep cost of entry that receives far less attention, and that is embarrassment. Every new journey demands that we become fundamentally comfortable with not being very good at something for a meaningful period of time.
In practice, this means publishing your first blog article, knowing it lacks the depth of your favourite author, teaching your first class while wondering if your students can see your hands shaking, or recording your first video and actively resisting the temptation to delete it because your own voice sounds entirely unfamiliar to you. This is the emotional price every beginner must pay before competence begins to replace uncertainty—a psychological fee I like to call the cringe tax. Unfortunately, many people mistake this natural initial discomfort for a definitive sign that they should stop, when in reality, it is often the very first indicator that they have finally begun.
Why It Feels So Personal
One of the most frustrating aspects of learning something new is that our taste develops long before our technical skills do. Long before we ever attempt to become writers, we have already read brilliant literature. Long before we became business owners, we had admired world-class brands. Long before we ever stand on a stage, we have watched confident speakers command rooms with total ease. Because our eyes develop an appreciation for high-quality long before our hands can reproduce it, our early work feels incredibly disappointing. This gap exists not because we lack innate capability, but because our expectations are miles ahead of our experience. The space between what we imagine in our heads and what we produce on the page can feel cavernous, yet every single expert has had to cross that same gap with no exceptions.
Confidence is rarely a starting point. More often, it is the result of showing up repeatedly until uncertainty loses its grip.
Social Media Has Changed the Way We Experience Growth
Years ago, professionals and creatives possessed the distinct luxury of improving quietly behind closed doors. A writer could fill dozens of private notebooks that no one else would ever read; an artist could paint fifty terrible canvases before displaying a single one in a gallery; a teacher could refine their lesson plans over several school terms before mastering their classroom delivery. Today, however, that protective barrier has vanished, and many of us are forced to learn entirely in public. We build businesses on Instagram, launch new ideas on LinkedIn, and document our personal journeys on Facebook.
The unique challenge of this modern ecosystem is that our earliest, most fragile attempts now exist directly alongside the output of people who have spent decades refining their craft. It is no wonder that beginners feel instantly intimidated; we are routinely comparing our first unedited chapter with someone else’s twentieth revised edition.
Every creator has a first post. The difference is that some people kept posting after it
One of the primary reasons creators like Mr Macaroni resonate so deeply with large audiences is that the public has watched their journey unfold in real-time. The sharp confidence, brilliant comedic storytelling, and high production quality we see today did not appear overnight. They developed gradually, one single video upload at a time, through consistency. Growth is rarely dramatic or cinematic when you are actively living through it day by day; it is a quiet reality that only becomes obvious in hindsight.
The Illusion of the Spotlight
To make matters worse, we often fall victim to a psychological phenomenon known as the spotlight effect, the persistent lie that everyone is watching us with intense scrutiny. We erroneously imagine people analyzing our every typo, our every awkward sentence, our nervous presentations, and our minor mistakes. The truth, however, is far more liberating: most people are simply trying to survive the complexities of their own lives. They are consumed by their own deadlines, rising fuel prices, school fees, family responsibilities, and tomorrow’s endless to-do list. The spotlight we feel burning down on us is almost always much brighter in our minds than it is in reality. Even if someone does happen to notice that you are a beginner, it is worth remembering that being new at something is not a character flaw; it is simply the natural, non-negotiable starting point of competence.
Looking Back Is a Privilege
These days, whenever I happen to come across my older writing or early business ideas, I still smile. I don’t smile because I think the work was secretly excellent, but because I can clearly see the tangible evidence of my own evolution. Every awkward sentence taught me something about rhythm, every imperfect article made the next draft slightly stronger, and every public mistake quietly transformed into a lasting lesson. I have come to realize that the ultimate goal of a creative or professional life isn’t to avoid cringing at your old work. The goal is to successfully become the kind of person who actually has old work to cringe at, because that means you dared to show up, you tried, and you stayed.
If you currently find yourself in a season where everything feels incredibly awkward, your writing, your business strategy, your content, or your career pivots, please do not mistake that heavy friction for failure. It is very likely the definitive proof that you are growing. One day, you will look back at today’s version of yourself with immense gratitude. You will notice all the things you wish you had done differently, you will see exactly how much you have improved, and perhaps, for a brief moment, you will cringe. When that day comes, don’t be embarrassed. Be proud. Every polished version of ourselves is built entirely on a collection of imperfects, courageous beginnings.
Your Turn
Growth is not reserved for people who already have everything figured out. It belongs to anyone willing to take the first step, even when that step feels awkward. If this article resonated with you, share it with someone who needs the reminder that every expert was once a beginner. And before you leave, ask yourself: What is one thing I have been avoiding because I am afraid of looking inexperienced? Your answer may be the beginning of your next season of growth.
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