What if I don’t fulfill my potential?

How trying to optimize my time makes me afraid to do what I love

For most of my life, I’ve tried to be thoughtful about how I spend my time. I didn’t want to coast or get complacent. I wanted to become someone — someone thoughtful, capable, impressive. Someone who lived up to their potential.

That meant being strategic. If I was going to put serious time into something, I wanted it to lead somewhere. Ideally to excellence. But at the very least, to progress — to a version of myself I could be proud of.

What didn’t seem worth it was spending time on something where the outcome felt middling. If I could only ever be “okay” at something, then why not use that time on something where I had a better shot at standing out—something that could better fulfill my potential.

That felt rational. Efficient. Like I was optimizing for a meaningful life.

I believed that most people didn’t realize how high the opportunity cost of their time really was—and I didn’t want to be like that. And to be honest, I still see some logic in it and I’ve spent a lot of time trying to be intentional with my energy.

But lately, I’ve started to realize something I hadn’t seen before:

That mindset — the one that filtered everything through effort vs. payoff — didn’t just come from discipline or ambition. It came from pain.

Where It Started

There were things I used to be great at. Or at least near the top.
Things I felt proud of, that I could hang my hat on, and that were pillars of my sense of identity.

But over time, I stopped being the standout. The competition got stronger. Others caught up. And I felt myself slipping from “one of the best” to “pretty good.”

And that shift was painful.

But instead of sitting with that pain—instead of trying go Buddha Ben mode and embrace impermanence—I started to rationalize.

I told myself:
“If I’m no longer exceptional at this, maybe it’s just not worth doing anymore.”
“I should put that effort toward something where I can stand out again.”

It was a way to cope, a way to protect myself from the discomfort of not being who I used to be.

How It Showed Up

A few examples from high school come to mind that I think show this:

• Sports: I was a solid athlete—competitive, coachable, all-conference material in some years. But if I wasn’t the best in the conference, or qualifying for the state tournament in golf, it was disappointing. And as I got older and the competition got stronger, I felt myself falling behind. I could always find someone better. And even if no one else saw that as a failure, it started to feel like one to me. Like being good just made the gap between me and great harder to ignore.

• Music: Trumpet was similar. I was first chair through most of high school. I had some natural ability and enjoyed it, but I didn’t practice much—and to be honest, I wasn’t as passionate about it as others were. I wasn’t trying to coast; I just didn’t have the same drive. Still, it didn’t feel good watching others pass me. I especially started to feel the gap more clearly in college. I no longer felt like I belonged in the same conversation as the serious musicians. I still believed I was good, but I believed less and less that I could be great. So I started pulling back. Not dramatically, but quietly. Internally. I told myself, “Well, if I don’t have the passion or upside to be great, maybe my time is better spent elsewhere.”

• Relationships: This one’s harder to quantify, but I felt it socially too. Growing up, I didn’t consider myself naturally likable. Social situations felt like places where I had to compensate and become someone people would want to be around. So I worked at it—watching videos, trying to change how I spoke and how I carried myself. I wasn’t trying to connect so much as trying to be acceptable.

  And over time, I did improve. I got more confident, more comfortable. Even after all the effort, I never felt like the person who lit up a room. I had gone from anxious to competent—but never reached that effortless charm I saw in others. It was that same good but not great feeling again, and the pain of that (along with insights from inner work that made me care about “my performance” in social settings less) led me to focus my effort in other places.

Where That Leaves Me

I started looking at everything this way, through the lens of: What’s the ROI on my time here?

And in some ways, that mindset served me. It made me focused. It gave me permission to pivot when something no longer made sense.

But it also narrowed my life.

Because now, as an adult, I still find myself hesitating to pursue things I genuinely enjoy—like piano, or singing, or writing on this site, or even new athletic goals—because I know I probably won’t be the best at them.

Especially when it matters to me and I’m not sure I can stand out doing it, I’ve internalized the message:
If I care about it and I’m still mediocre, it’s going to hurt. So maybe don’t go there.

And I’ve started to see how limiting that is. How much it cuts me off from things that could bring authentic expression, joy, or growth — feelings that I think are important even when they aren’t creating something impressive from the outside.

I haven’t fully unlearned the old mindset. But I’m starting to question whether fulfilling my potential really means maximizing output—or whether it might mean building a life I actually want to be in.

So that’s where I am. Not resolved. But paying attention.

📓 Journal Prompt:

What’s something you’ve wanted to try—or return to—but stopped yourself because you weren’t sure you’d be great at it? And what would it take to let yourself do it anyway?