By Emi Gruender
Every kid wants to be special.
As a (former) kid myself, I can confirm this wholeheartedly. What kid wouldn’t want that gold sticker to boast on their shirt? What kid wouldn’t want a peanut gallery of authority figures, teachers, and counselors who had deemed them “extraordinarily different from the rest?” What kid wouldn’t want a steady stream of these mini-predictions and micro-promises that, to a kid, seem to guarantee a bright future?
When I was younger—and when adults were generous enough to tell me what I most desperately wanted to hear—I collected these praises obsessively. Perhaps it started in elementary school, when I was so habitually loud that my teachers could not possibly ignore my larger-than-life personality. Or perhaps it started earlier, with the advanced reading skills that earn all young avid readers their own “special” gold stickers. No matter the case, the facts were as follows: adults seemed to insist that I had “potential,” and more than anything, I wanted them to be right.
Many kids, myself included, went through the rat race of “growing up” with these encouraging words perched like a parrot on their shoulders. To assume the perspective of my gymnastics coaches at the time: there was a 7-year old girl who improved extraordinarily quickly as an acrobatic gymnast despite being petrified of a backtuck in a tumbling pass. When she got a certificate affirming that a US Gymnastics committee was acknowledging her and her partner as “talented athletes exhibiting a strong caliber and quality,” it all but confirmed their opinion of her potential. And though she seemed completely oblivious to the laurels awarded to her, she was very much aware of the privilege that came with the title. A promise of potential, of course, but also an obligation to succeed.
Though it makes me cringe to recall my inflated ego of being unofficially deemed a “kid with potential,” I distinctly remember that over time, “being special,” became an integral part of my identity. It became something I took for granted, something that I got used to hearing on a regular basis. It felt almost like a guarantee, a “micro-promise,” that as long as I fulfilled the potential they saw in me—whatever that meant—my future would be bright, and I would be someone worth something. If I was “so special,” and if so many people shared such a high opinion of me, I had no other choice but to prove them right. What was I really worth, otherwise?
I share this experience with many, many other children. Or former children, that is. (I still believe myself a child). I’ve heard many a story about children who sailed easily through elementary and middle school—supposedly as a result of their being “special”—but floundered as high school began. Some call it “burnout,” and others call it “ego death” but whatever the nomenclature, the symptoms are consistent: an identity built upon belief of inner “potential” meets…well, the real world.
There’s no one to blame for such an issue, of course. Supporters gave praise with sincere intent, and I cherished each and every word—perhaps too close to my heart, in retrospect. With an identity built upon fulfilling my so-called “potential,” I found that everything I did was being watched and judged, not by my inner self, but by the gallery of those who believed in me. If I won, I would be fulfilling a debt I had to them for their kindness. If I lost, they wouldn’t pelt me with peanut shells and boo. They would simply be disappointed, stand up, and leave: which in many ways, I felt was a far worse punishment.
But as my high school career draws to a close, I’ve started to learn how to untangle my actual identity from my perception of what other people think I’m worth. At the end of the day, these words were just kind words, not a dare, not a challenge, not a forecast or prediction. I can’t pretend to offer a clean explanation or solution, nor a web of interlinked studies to support my claim. Perhaps this Op/Ed was simply a nothing-burger after all. But in what little I’ve learned, I can say this much:
You’ve got potential, kid. But when you go about proving it, do it for yourself.