Embarrassment
When people talk about their embarrassing moments or mention the word embarrassing, I don’t think of one single memory.
I think of my life.
Not everything—just the moments where I tried, where I thought I had something figured out… and still failed. Those are the ones that stay. The ones that replay when things are quiet.
To this point, it’s embarrassing.
Not the kind you laugh about with friends. Not the kind that fades after a few days. This one sits with you. It follows you. It reminds you of who you thought you were… and who you turned out to be in that moment.
The worst part isn’t even the failure itself.
It’s knowing that, at some point, I was sure I wouldn’t fail.
I’ve always been someone who watches. I notice things—how people talk, how they move, what they really mean even when they don’t say it. It’s almost like a habit at this point. While others are caught up in the moment, I’m already a step back, trying to understand it.
That’s why failing hits differently.
Because when you spend your time observing everything, you start to believe you can predict outcomes. You start to feel like you’re ahead.
Until you’re not.
And when reality proves you wrong, there’s no one else to blame. Just you… and the version of yourself that thought you had it all figured out.
I refer to myself as the observer.
Not because it sounds good… but because it’s the only way I can explain it.
I see almost everything.
Not just what people do, but how they do it. The pauses, the tone, the small shifts most people ignore. It’s like my mind is always recording, always trying to understand.
But for someone who sees so much… I don’t always act.
I watch more than I move.
Sometimes I tell myself it’s patience. Sometimes I call it strategy.
But if I’m being honest, there are moments it just feels like hesitation.
Like I’m stuck between knowing and doing.
My memories go far back—further than most people expect. I can still picture moments from when I was about four. Small things. Random things. The way people spoke around me, the way I started picking up words faster than I should have.
I learned how to talk early.
Then reading came.
Even walking… everything seemed to come quicker than normal.
People noticed. They always do when a child is ahead.
But nobody really tells you what happens after that.
Nobody explains what it feels like to grow up thinking you’re ahead… only to reach a point where everything slows down, and suddenly, being “fast” doesn’t mean anything anymore.
That’s where things start to change.
And maybe that’s the problem.
Maybe seeing everything isn’t the advantage I thought it was.
Because the more I watch, the more I realize something…
Life doesn’t reward people who just understand it.
It moves for people who act.
And somewhere between knowing and doing,
between watching and moving
I’ve been standing still.
For longer than I’d like to admit.
