Edited by Navya Gupta
To be honest, most times, I would rather not be alive than be embarrassed. It’s terrifying to me; other people’s judgement, that feeling of pure stupidity. I used to think embarrassment was something to be avoided at all costs—something that could be outrun if I just played it safe. It’s worked pretty okay so far, throughout my school years and outside. First semester, I curated every move, making sure I never raise my hand unless I knew I was right, never spoke to people I thought were cool, never said anything that might sound dumb. I tried to stay in my comfort zone, to stay within the lines. And for what? To avoid some fleeting moment of secondhand embarrassment that, in reality, no one else would remember?
At some point—maybe after raising my hand enough to get comfortable and writing so many subtly spiteful emails that I would forget what it meant to care—I realized that avoiding embarrassment meant avoiding life itself. I couldn’t stay holed up in only places I liked forever. It was as simple as talking to my roommates friends when they came over instead of looking at my phone, or striking up conversation with a random group of people outside Chai24 at 3am when I couldn’t write another word of my essay. The best moments are often the most unfiltered ones. You can’t make real friends, have ridiculous nights, or stumble into great stories without the risk of looking stupid.
But true embarrassment isn’t just about slipping in the dining hall or answering a question wrong in class. The worst kind, the kind that keeps you up at night, comes from sincerity—from trying and feeling like you failed. It’s putting yourself out there, sending the text, auditioning for the club, confessing a crush, applying for something you think is out of your league. It’s the possibility of rejection, of looking foolish, of being met with silence when you were hoping for something else. To be honest, that’s still too terrifying for me to attempt. There’s a reason I’ve never been one to ask people out.
But I wonder if doing nothing at all is much worse than failing at something. To hold myself back, to let opportunities pass because the fear of looking stupid is louder than the possibility of something wonderful? Some of the best things in life—deep friendships, stupid inside jokes, late-night adventures, even the smallest moments of joy (that dream internship)—require the risk of embarrassment.
Embarrassment isn’t just something that happens to you—it’s proof that you’re trying, that you’re showing up for your own life. The people who seem the happiest, the most magnetic, the most alive? They’re the ones willing to be a little cringe. They dance badly at parties, they admit their feelings even when it makes them vulnerable, they raise their hand in class even when they’re unsure. They live without the exhausting weight of wondering what everyone else thinks.
So this semester, I’m trying to be more like them. I’m saying yes to things that make me nervous. Next semester I’ll try out for a play like I’ve always wanted. I’ll reapply to that club, maybe ask my crush out. I’ll retry office hours with that one professor. I’ll laugh at my own awkward moments instead of replaying them like they were some great tragedy. I’ll let myself be earnest and enthusiastic and vulnerable, even when it makes my stomach twist with nerves.
College is for embarrassing yourself. It’s for falling flat on your face—sometimes literally—and getting back up. For putting yourself out there, even when it feels like your whole body is screaming at you to retreat. For trying before you’re ready. Because if the cost of a fun, full, ridiculous life is the occasional wave left hanging or a mispronounced word in class, then that’s a price I’m willing to pay.
And if all else fails, at least I’ll have some great stories to tell.