I’d like to jog on the campus track. Not because I’m practicing for something, but simply because it sounds like a pleasant thing to do. Clear my head, work out, and feel like I have my life together once in a while.
But every time I imagine going, this little voice appears: What if people from your class show up? What if you’re slower than everybody else? What if you look stupid?
It’s not fear, it’s convenience.To scroll my phone instead, to tell myself that I’ll do it tomorrow, to pick the option where nobody sees me struggle.
And it’s not even running. It’s the same thing with that new club everyone has been raving about. Why do I order the same thing at the cafes rather than trying something new? Why did I stay quiet when they asked for volunteers, even though I kind of wanted to raise my hand?
Here’s the truth that I’ve been learning that makes me uncomfortable: the harshest critic isn’t in the crowd, it’s sitting right inside your head.
We pay lakhs for college tuition, assuming that education costs money. And yet, we somehow assume that personal growth is sitting in your dorm. It is not.
All versions of you that you wish to become pay an admission fee, and that fee is paid in awkwardness, moments of discomfort, and yes: embarrassment. You cannot level up before you appear foolish at the level you are at.
The Phantom Audience That’s Ruining Your Life
Psychologists have a term for what we’re all going through: the spotlight effect. Studies indicate we tend to overestimate how many people see and notice our behavior and appearance.
You’re jailed in a prison of your own creation, with bars constructed of attention that does not even exist.
When did you last really sit around thinking about somebody else’s cringe moment for more than five minutes? And yet you’re sure everyone’s keeping a running record of your disasters. They’re not. They’re too busy fretting about their own.
The Price of Playing It Safe
Image One: You graduate having spared yourself embarrassment. You never belonged to that club, never attended that party by yourself, never displayed your work. You remained cozy, remained secure, remained small.
Image Two: You chose embarrassment as the cover charge of an adventurous life. You went to the track and after eight weeks, you ran 5K without pause. You amassed cringe-worthy moments like badges of honor because every single one of them meant that you were attempting.
Which kind of person do you wish to be?
The Math of Regret vs. Embarrassment
Embarrassment is transient. It flashes hot and bright, but then it goes out.
Regret, however? Regret accrues. It lingers in your chest at 2 AM when you’re 35 and thinking, “I wish I had just tried.” I’d rather pay the tuition fee of humiliation now than the lifetime membership to regret later.
The Growth Equation
Think about it: each skill you’re proud of involved challenges initially. You learned how to ride a bike by falling off. You learned to read by messing up words.
The equation is easy: Embarrassment + Persistence = Growth. The tuition is required.
What if you just started?
What if tomorrow morning, you went to that track? Who cares if you walk half of it? You’re lapping everyone who’s still sitting on their couch.
What if you joined that club, that team sport, that open mic night?
The Permission Slip You’ve Been Waiting For
This is your permission slip. You’re allowed to be bad at things. You’re allowed to look silly. Because that’s not the embarrassing part; the embarrassing part is never trying at all.
Embarrassment is an investment in becoming someone you don’t recognize yet; someone braver, more skilled, more alive.
So go for it. Sign up for that thing. Raise your hand up, even if your voice will tremble. The first time will be difficult. The second time will be less difficult. And around the tenth time, you’ll see the fear was so much larger than the thing itself.
Your future self is waiting for you to pay the tuition fee.
Pay it.
The only thing more costly than embarrassment is spending your entire life wondering what would’ve occurred had you just attempted.
