The Fear of Being “Ordinary” (and why being average is perfectly enough)

“Shoot for the moon. For even if you fail, you will still land among the stars.”

This was the poster that greeted me on my first day in my Grade 4 classroom. It was hung by my kind and enthusiastic teacher, who wanted nothing more than to inspire and motivate her students to live up to their potential; the message essentially being to do better, we must aim for nothing less than the best.

As innocent this message may seem, it stems from a “never enough” mentality that is destructively pervasive in our culture. A mentality that being ordinary is not enough, and that in order to be “good” we must be special.

We must do whatever it takes to be extraordinary.

Throughout our lives, many of us have fallen victim to this mentality of self-deciprecation. We learn to view '“average,” “normal,” and “ordinary” as lacking. We fear that falling into the category of “average” is settling for a lesser identity, or accepting a loss of power.

When we hear the word “ordinary,” it is loaded with negative connotations of monotony, or boredom, or the mundane. When at is essence, ordinary is a very neutral term— and who is to say, not a positive one?

For a long time, I considered being “ordinary” a failure to live up to my potential.

And its a shame (and quite f***ed up really) to walk around carrying this fear of ordinary. Ordinary is synonymous with average.  And average quite literally means “the norm”-- the category most people and endeavours fall into (duh).

By rebuking and fighting anything that falls in this category of average- whether it be our average job, average body, average grade, or average skill or ability at a sport or art or hobby- you are ultimately leaving yourself with very little chance to be happy.

This pursuit of the extraordinary is NOT something for which we can really blame ourselves.  It is something that is pervasive in our society, birthed in the same seeds that planted the American Dream, and the unquenchable thirst for “more” and “better” that consumes and drives our modern lives.

Its these seeds planted in you with the best intentions and love when you were little, with parents and loving adults promising you that “you can be whatever you want to be,” and that “no dream is too big.”

You take one dance class and they assure you that you were on your way to become a prima ballerina.  You take a liking to your family dog and they start setting aside a fund for vet school. You sing and you dance and you are told you can grow up to be a famous performer, that all you have to do is “try,” and to “believe in yourself.”

Unfortunately, the biggest dreams often require much more than that.

I grew up with these messages.  And I never questioned it, or even thought it strange. Still today, I will find myself making the same grandiose statements to the kids that I teach: “Oh wow, percy, look at that beautiful drawing! You are going to have a painting in a gallery one day!” and Aliza, you can be an olympic gymnast!”

Of course, encouraging kids to try hard and “dream big” is important to build their sense of worth and self-confidence. But what about when they are 18, and not admitted to art school?  Or 25 and they only job they can get is some entry level accounting work, far from the “pursue your passion”  speech they had been spoon-fed ever since they were being spoon-fed?

And who knows, maybe Aliza will be an olympic gymnast, and Percy a famous artist. But chances are, they will not. But that does NOT mean they will not find happy, meaningful, and rewarding lives.  

The truth is, the majority of people in our society are working average jobs, making average wages, in so called “ordinary” fields or professions. I am sure Karen did NOT dream of growing up to be a retail manager for a tile company. And while these kinds of jobs are likely NOT anyone’s true passion or life calling, they are doing work integral to the functioning of our society.

And who is to say that people that are working these mediocre or average jobs, are living lives that are any less fulfilling or meaningful or joyful, than someone working in a so-called “noble” profession.

For myself,  this fixation on the extraordinary kept me in a long season of tire spinning— wanting to do everything, but nothing seemed enough. I was rooted to the spot, unable to take a step in any direction afraid of stumbling into a career that was anything less than my “calling.”

I did not want to settle for anything less than the glamorous dreams I had birthed unto me as a kid. Respectively, I dreamed I would grow up to become a vet, a gymnast, an olympic snowboarder, a best-selling author, a broadway star, a professional horseback rider/trainer. and a plant-based chef/food blogger. 

Notice what each of these dreams have in common: the element of fame, and of top-tierdom, of being the best. 

It wasn’t even so much as choosing which of these paths to purse that caused me so much angst, but the very true possibility that whatever I did, that I would not be able to do well enough to achieve the level of fame or recognition that I so valued.  I wanted my name to be known, whatever I did.  I wanted to turn heads when I walked into a room.  I wanted to be anything but ordinary.  Because to be ordinary, to have an average, unknown existence, felt worse than failure. 

This has been a big obstacle for me in recovery too.  Contrary to widespread perceptions of eating disorders, I never saw myself as fat, or even overweight.  I never considered myself to be ugly.  Even when I was in the depths of ED, avoiding mirrors and hiding from my appearance, I still innately understood that on the spectrum of ugly to beautiful, or fat to thin, that in both categories I was at least “average.”  

But that didn’t stop me from feeling loathing towards my body.  I did not want to be average.  I wanted to be thin, uniquely so.  I wanted bones.  And then I wanted to be the fittest.  I wanted washboard abs and veiny arms, and rock hard limbs. I wanted to turn heads.  And in that pursuit of extraordinary, I spent years iron-fisting my body to be my masterpiece.   

If I were to get all psychological about it now, I could say that all the fear and uncertainty and pressure I was feeling about what I would do with my life, I channeled into my feelings about my body.  

As cliche as it is true, the lack of control and powerless I felt over the greater meaning of my existence, was compensated by exerting control where I could— controlling my food, and my body.  But this is tangential, so I will leave this for another post.  

In essence, an “average body” was something I dreaded and feared. Even being told that I was approaching a “normal” weight, I felt like a failure.

I felt like I was sliding down the rungs of a ladder I had given years of my life and all of my strength to climb.  I was letting myself go, and slipping back into the throes of mediocrity.

I felt silly, and narcissistic, admitting to this realization, but it was truly how it felt.  Allowing myself to settle at an “average” weight really did feel like I was giving up.    

This is not unique thinking.  I am NOT the one lone human who feels dissatisfied with a perfectly good and “normal” body.   Countless studies have reported a surprising percentage of the population, all genders and ages (although especially young women) suffer from negative body image, and desire to change or “fix” their appearance. 

Once again, we can thank the glamorized body ideals that pervade our society.  With every photoshopped, face-tuned, airbrushed image posted to a feed, what is extraordinary is presented as a standard to which we perpetually struggle to live up to.

There was lots bundled into the pile of kindling that ignited my eating disorder, but a significant piece was the unattainable ideal of what I should (could) look like -- I just needed to try.

It takes a lot of work, a lot of time, and a lot of therapy to rewire the belief that the extraordinary is achievable simply through try. And even more to come to accept the ordinary, the normal, the “what is” as just as worthy and meaningful.

I am now in a very average position in my life; I am paying an average rent, living in a perfectly average house, working a very average, but rewarding job as a teacher; I am at an average weight, in an ordinary body, that is beautifully healthy and functioning.  I bake sourdough bread that is far from perfect, but tasty. I take pole classes with fellow students and instructors that keep me humble about how much I still have to learn. And I love every minute of it.  

I am coming to realize that the worst part of being “ordinary” is holding on to the belief that you shouldn’t be. 

As soon as you can let that go, and embrace what is for exactly how it is, happiness and meaning and purpose just start pooling at your feet, as if a hose has just been unkinked and freed to flow.

  
There is a fine line between self-acceptance and self-improvement.  I may never be a vet or an olympic snowboarder or a broadway singer.  I will never look like a Victoria secret angel, or be 5’8 with long legs and a short torso. 

But I can be perfectly happy and fulfilled working towards being the best version of average me, teaching and writing and riding and snowboarding for the joy of it, laughing over my mistakes and failures, and making connections with other people who are equally as human-- NOT allowing my insecurities and shame to isolate me.  

This is self-acceptance.  To be okay and happy exactly as you are, and where you are, grateful for you in all its ordinary excellence. 

And once you do that,  you might start to notice where meaning and happiness truly reside— and be free from the unattainable ideals of perfection.

Growing versus Growing Up (Thoughts after 27 Years around the Sun)

This week I turned 27.  It’s not a big milestone birthday, but in that way it almost feels more weighted.  27 is significant in how seamlessly I now classify as someone in their “late twenties.” There is little novelty and pomp around this birthday, the way it was around 21 or 25. Turning 27, I am not old by any means, but I am no longer “new” to adulthood. I am all grown up.

Except not really.

In a lot of ways, I feel brand new to this adult existence.  

In terms of the place I am at and what I have accomplished so far in life, I am still young. I have friends who are the same age and yet not young in the same way, settled with partners sharing bedrooms, lives, mortgages, and even families. Friends with jobs that have benefits and yearly incomes, who talk about market prices in the city vs. the surrounding areas, and go furniture shopping not out of necessity but by choice.  

It’s not that I feel unaccomplished or wish I was at that point in my life. If anything, I wish that I could remain in the fresh-out-of-school, finding-yourself-stage for a little while longer.  I feel like I’m not done with my days of being untethered. 

And I don’t mean in terms of relationships.  I mean untethered to a single path or direction or vision of my life and way it is being shaped.  

I got off to a late start in my adult life.

I spent the majority of my teens and early twenties with an eating disorder, which caused me to miss out on the kinds of connections and memories that can only come from spontaneous nights out that end drunk ordering pizza to someone’s apartment. And then entering recovery, I essentially surrendered my independence to my family and treatment team in order to get better.

So while all my friends were moving out and starting careers, I was on temporary leave, living in my childhood bedroom, on a strict recovery meal plan enforced and implemented by my parents. While other 24 year olds were updating their CVs and planning travel adventures, I was completing a daily meal log to be reviewed and approved by my therapist and dietician.

After two years of family-based treatment, I was finally healthy enough to step into my independence and grow into the next chapter of my life. So at 25, I moved out of my parents’ house for the first time and landed myself in a house full of roommates. I was doing things for the first time on my own, like shopping and paying for groceries, making rent each month, and washing my sheets. It was a learning curve, and a little unnerving. 

I felt like an 18-year old off to my first year of college.  Instead I was 25, with a new teaching contract with the Toronto school board, a masters degree, and a meal log. 

I am only now at 27 starting to feel like I have found a bit of a rhythm in this adultness of life.  I no longer go into whirls of anxiety over grocery shopping, or the idea of budgeting for household items like paper towel and toilet paper. 

I pay my rent each month automatically a day before its due, and I recently took on my own phone bill too (thanks dad).  I like coming home to my house of four roommates, flopping onto the couch with a glass of wine and lamenting about that guy I liked who turned out to be an asshole. I like having a contract teaching a certain grade at a certain school, with a definite start and end, because I like the idea that there is something different that comes after. 

I still follow DJs and entertainment groups on instagram, because I am still holding out for another summer of music festivals and events, which I only got to taste in my eating disorder, and put on hold in my recovery. 

Now I want to sink my teeth in.  

However, I also feel the pull of solid ground beneath my feet, to find one centre of gravity.  I’ve spent years floating, orbiting erratically,  attached to many things but never something solid enough to keep me flying.

And this groundedness will NOT come from chasing highs at music festivals, a new fitness goal, or a living arrangement. 

This groundedness will be found when I surrender to the process of accepting myself as I am, where I am, and where I am going. 

I am 27. I am no lo longer a little girl, an angsty teen or a university student still “figuring it out.”  I am a woman, strong and independent, who has been through enough of life to know what is worth pursuing and what to let go of in that greater pursuit.  

I don’t need to force myself into a mold, or meet a certain deadline.

I don’t need to manipulate my body to look a certain way. Equating beauty to worth is unsustainable happiness.  For even if I managed to get my body close to the standard I may have in my head, it will only be a short matter of time before gravity and the the sun take their toll and kick off the natural aging process that our society demonizes.  And so, at 27, I am grateful for the health and youth of my body as it is right now. 

I will live this year and the ones going forward without restricting myself in any way. 

I am shifting the narrative-- rather than making my body my masterpiece, I will focus on making my life my masterpiece instead.  My body is simply the instrument that will get me there. 

A few years ago, I   had no vision or understanding of my life beyond the moment I was in.  Each day felt like a mountain I needed to scale, and it felt impossible to picture anything realistic beyond that.  But now, the path I am travelling is infinitely less steep.  I can see a little further ahead of me, and I can start to map it out a little. 

I don’t need to pin down the exact route, or even specific destination, but I can at least choose a direction, and commit to the journey to get there.  

I do not have any big concrete goals for this year, especially with all the external uncertainty at present (thanks covid!). 

I am not expecting a permanent teaching job to come within my grasp, I am not planning some extravagant travel adventure, or even changing my relationship status. 

I am not opposed to any of these things happening this year, but if they don’t, I will NOT feel like I’ve failed in any way.  

Rather than make goals for the year, I am shifting my focus to the way I live every day.  If I can go to bed every night feeling like I did the best I could to make the most of each moment that day, I’ll be making this year a smashing success.  It’s the little steps, NOT the big leaps, to which I’m devoting my attention.  

Ultimately,  my goal for 27 is to  make every day count.

I’m living for the journey, relishing the good parts of everyday, not postponing celebration for some elusive destination.