Embrace your cringe

A kind of freedom

Writing about my cringe is kind of cringe. Throwing the word “cringe” around is even more cringe. But I’m going to do it anyway.

I cringe when I think about how, as a child, I harboured an uncontrollable desire for chaos, scribbling awful, aweful words and images across my limbs under my sleeves. My family doctor saw it once but never mentioned it to my parents—bless her heart. Or perhaps she did, and they just didn’t know what to do with me.

I cringe when I look back at my juvenile attempts at writing and producing music during high school. Rap was the most cringe genre I tried to write. I used Photoshop to make bad album cover art. I made internet friends who shared my passion, which was kind of cute but also added to the cringe. We all grew up to be high achievers who don’t make music anymore—I know this, not because we stayed in touch, but from the occasional update on LinkedIn or Instagram.

I cringe when I recall my young adult self lamenting—complaining, really—endlessly about love and loneliness, despite never having experienced love (but loads of loneliness). Sometimes I still lament, but now about late-stage capitalism—instead of love—and yes, loneliness.

I cringe when I remember the first time I held my best friend’s baby. I grew up without younger siblings or cousins and had never babysat. It hadn’t occurred to me until that day, how terrifying it might feel to hold such a fragile, sweet, soft, and precious tiny human being a few hours after she was born. I held her with my stiff, awkward arms, and with every ounce of attention and care I could muster. I was full of love and awe, but sweating with anxiety.

I cringe when I look back on my first serious crush—how quickly and easily I believed in every word he said to me. Always some variation of: You make me happy. I’m not happy with her. My younger self missed an ocean of red flags, as blind to them as my father is to the colours of red and green. I didn’t see it until enough distance and time stood between us.

I cringe when I recall how I slipped a poem—neatly handwritten using my favourite pen—under my first workplace mentor’s office door on our last day working together. I wanted to express my overflowing gratitude, for treating me like an adult during my internship. He texted me and said it was sweet, instead of calling me a psycho—bless his heart too.

I cringe when I remember all the one-on-one not-dates I went on with friends during university—study sessions, steakhouses, sushi, scenic drives, late-night Netflix. Most of them were probably meant to be dates, and I was just too young and stupid to catch on. A few of them tried to kiss me. One of them held my hand as I slept on their couch. One of them tried to fuck me. One of them was my ex-boyfriend.

I cringe as I spill coffee all over the table and my sweater in front of my new boss, too excited because of something—I don’t even remember what it was, but we were playing a board game, so I know it couldn’t have been significant.

I cringe as I fall—twice!—while trying to avoid a marked, bumpy patch of ice during my first skating attempt in over a decade. In a moment of panic, I tried to dampen the fall with my hands, and I hurt my wrist. My partner says it was my money-making wrist. I will need to learn to fall better.

I cringe as I ramble about my love for potatoes for far too long, with friends who don’t share my enthusiasm for the starchy tuberous vegetable native to the Americas. I can’t help it. I really like potatoes. My cellular hotspot password has been “ilovepotato” for as long as I’ve had a hotspot.

I cringe as I trip over perfectly flat ground while running past a group of chatty teenagers on their way to school. I stumbled, swore and laughed all at once, and the teenagers fell silent and did not resume their conversation until I was out of earshot, probably making fun of me. But who cares if teenagers think you’re cringe? They’re going through a sensitive stage in their lives. Let them have this one.

I cringe as I naively share my candid, idealistic hopes during interviews with potential employers. CEOs, founders, and managers—most of whom couldn’t give two fucks about any of that—offer me cute, fluffy responses full of crap. Your career development is an ongoing priority and an investment in the company. I try not to roll my eyes into the back of my skull, and wonder why I bother.

I cringe every time I realize I’ve forgotten my wallet, ID, or keys at home—again.

I cringe every time I overthink and over-plan a project I don’t know how to execute, only to abandon it after three months of throwing myself at it.

I cringe every time I tell people I took an Uber to meet them downtown—even on weeknights—because, at 30, I’m still uncomfortable parking in crowded places.

I cringe every time I log into my Steam account. You can’t change your Steam account name (not to be confused with your profile name). And even though it’s not publicly visible, every time I log into a new device a wave of shame washes over me as I type, xxxmaelstrom. I bet yours is cringe too, but perhaps not as much?

I cringe every time I have to speak publicly, my usually hidden immigrant accent giving away my anxiety.

We’ve all been pretty damn cringe at some point, doing one thing or another.

Embrace your cringe; it frees you—

To be a flawed weirdo.

To be real.

To do the thing anyway. Like writing this post about my cringe.