Why It’s OK to Be a Try-Hard

A wise man once said, “Everyone good at anything tries hard.” That man was Mike Birbiglia, speaking to Bowen Yang and Matt Rogers on their podcast, “Las Culturistas,” about why we should all have a little more respect for the try-hards in our midst. “You know who tries hard?” he continued. “Taylor. You know who else? Beyoncé. You know who else? Raygun, the breakdancer in the Olympics.”

In fact, he said, there’s nothing more suspect than people who try hard to appear as though they don’t . . . try hard. “If someone does something amazing and they say it was easy, be suspicious,” he said. “Not only are they lying about it, they also committed crimes.”

Birbiglia’s impassioned mini-speech brought me right back to the soapbox I preached from all through childhood, one that I sometimes cast aside in adulthood. I like to think I never caved to the pressure of appearing aloof and disinterested as a kid. I believed in my bones that it was cool to care. But as an adult — on the hamster wheel of social media, where I see only the meticulously edited online versions of peers and celebrities alike — I find that I need Birbiglia’s reminder more and more. I also find that, as easy as it is to revere try-hard behavior in others — like the Taylors and Beyoncés and, yes, even the Rayguns of the world — I notice I’m much more critical when it’s me who’s fixated on something, even the stuff that I know is important, like my writing.

I’ve been writing professionally for 10 years, since I was 19. It’s one of those situations where I can’t imagine myself doing anything else; this is what I was put on this earth to do, yada yada. But at its simplest, writing is just communication. It’s putting my thoughts into words. So I tend to put an inordinate amount of effort not only into my work, but also into my personal communication with family members, friends, roommates, love interests. There’s hardly been an email that I didn’t reread 20 times before sending it off. I labor over cards and notes that I write for birthdays and holidays. I read and reread (and now edit!) my text messages.

In my writing for work, I always try to be thoughtful and intentional, even when the pace of digital media demands I churn something out as fast as humanly possible. Everything I publish — even the seemingly small or insignificant stuff — has been read and reread and read again, then read out loud, tweaked, reread, read out loud, tweaked, reread. I have been known to let the placement of a comma or an em dash derail my afternoon. And I frequently feel a quiet embarrassment for the effort I devote to something that most people would barely give a second thought.

We tell ourselves that the “too cool to care” holdover from our schoolyard days belongs only to the younger, more unhealed versions of ourselves. That the impulse to conceal the depth of our passion and our caring died long ago, along with our wardrobe full of low-rise skinny jeans. But that insecurity lives on in many of us as adults. And it’s certainly there when I judge myself for agonizing over frivolous things or being an insufferable perfectionist.

But Birbiglia’s words unleashed a much-needed change of perspective. Instead of bullying myself for rewriting the headline of a story 12 times, I can choose to see that behavior as something else: pride in my work and in the thing I’m really good at — the thing that makes me cool and interesting and different, because I try so hard at it.

That’s only part of the story. Birbiglia’s speech gave me license to stop judging the try-hard within me, but it also made me reflect on how we can’t all be trying our hardest at everything all the time. We just don’t have the capacity, and it would ultimately lead to disappointment.

I’m a good writer — it’s what I do for work, it ignites a fire in my soul with the force of a thousand suns, etc. — so it only makes sense that I try hard at it. But I don’t have to be good at absolutely everything. I don’t have to approach everything with the same rigidity. I can learn to be content with utter mediocrity in other realms of my life, the realms that don’t mean as much to me, like exercising or baking. I can give myself some grace the next time I pull a weirdly grainy cake from the oven or need to do a set of push-ups on my knees.

This doesn’t mean I should give up entirely on anything at which I don’t immediately excel. I’ll continue to go to Pilates class, even with the knowledge that I may never be “good” at it. Being a perfectionist and a try-hard has held a lot of people back from trying new things, or letting themselves explore. In my reporting for other stories, I’ve heard from countless sources who say they want to get into crafting or journaling or some kind of new hobby, but their fear of failure — or just not being “good” at it — gets in the way.

Birbiglia’s speech was a reminder that it’s OK to cling a little extra-tight to the things that bring us joy and give us a personal sense of fulfillment, just as it’s OK to loosen our grip on other things. Especially the stuff that makes us feel bad about ourselves anytime we don’t totally nail it.

He ended his speech with this: “I want you to know that this is my fifth draft of this. You know why I’m telling you? Because if you’re a fellow try-hard, you deserve to know.”

From one serial drafter and try-hard to another, I see you, Birbiglia. God forbid a girl put her whole heart into something she loves — and make peace with her mediocrity in everything she doesn’t.

Emma Glassman-Hughes (she/her) is the associate editor at PS Balance. In her seven years as a reporter, her beats have spanned the lifestyle spectrum; she’s covered arts and culture for The Boston Globe, sex and relationships for Cosmopolitan, and food, climate, and farming for Ambrook Research.