For the first five weeks of school, I walked into class every day and saw the same quote written on the whiteboard:

“Allow yourself to be a beginner.”

At first, I read it in passing.

By week three, I started noticing it.

By week five, it started noticing me.

Being back in school at 30 has stretched me in ways I didn’t expect. There are moments when I move through a treatment confidently… and moments when I miss a step. Moments when I know the information, but my execution needs refinement. Moments where disappointment shows up quickly, trying to convince me I should be further along.

But something has shifted in me.

Instead of spiraling into comparison or self-pity, I’ve started asking a different question:

Is this an identity issue… or a skill issue?

Most of the time, it’s skill.

And skill improves with practice.

That realization has been freeing.

Because somewhere along the way, I stopped allowing myself to be a beginner outside of structured spaces. I expected polish before practice. I expected confidence before repetition. I expected alignment before experience.

But growth doesn’t work that way.

Beginnings are awkward.

They’re hyper-aware.

They expose the gap between who you are and who you’re becoming.

They require humility.

And sometimes, they feel embarrassing.

Not because you’re incapable — but because you can see the vision so clearly in your mind, and your current execution doesn’t fully match it yet.

There’s a specific kind of discomfort in that. It’s not self-hate. It’s not even insecurity. It’s the tension of being in transition.

But here’s what I’m learning:

Embarrassment is often just evidence that you care.

The mistake isn’t caring.

The mistake is expecting mastery without movement.

When I miss a step in class, I don’t question whether I belong there. I correct it and keep going. I remind myself that muscle memory builds with repetition. That refinement comes after practice — not before it.

So why would I deny myself that same grace in other areas of my life?

Why do we expect ourselves to arrive fully formed in new seasons?

Why do we withhold permission to practice?

Allowing yourself to be a beginner is not lowering your standards. It’s understanding the path to them.

It’s separating identity from execution.

It’s saying:

“I am still becoming — and that’s allowed.”

Growth at this age feels intentional. We see our patterns. We recognize perfectionism. We notice the quiet self-judgment. And instead of collapsing into it, we choose something different.

We choose to keep going.

Even when it feels clumsy.

Even when it feels unfinished.

Even when it feels slightly uncomfortable.

Because staying still to protect pride costs more than practicing in humility.

I don’t want to be someone who waits until she feels fully polished before she moves.

I want to be someone who builds confidence through consistency.

If you’re in a season of starting over, starting fresh, or stepping into something unfamiliar, let this be your reminder:

You are not behind.

You are building.

And building is allowed to look like practice.

So today, I’m choosing grace over perfection.

Practice over paralysis.

Progress over pride.

And I’m allowing myself to be a beginner.

Again.

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And I want to say thank you to Mrs. Hollie, not only for leaving those words on the board every single day, but for creating a space where it truly felt safe enough to be a beginner. Where growth is supported, mistakes are part of the process, and becoming is encouraged.