I suffer the usual self-depreciating curse along with the rest of humanity. The old “not good enough” whispered softly in my ear infinity times over, chiding me for even thinking I could be a tad musical or artistic or funny or human.

I know I’m not alone.

During my college years a special breed of this insanity came to rest on my shoulders forever. If I’m not careful it will outlive my flesh and bone that so desperately longs to pour out with pen and music and color.

Rachel was the bravest girl I knew at the time.

She was large and over boisterous, bossy and focused. She was a musician of sorts with her hand in composing, performing, managing and meddling. If there was an open mic, she was there. At campus wide concerts she somehow managed to open for someone almost every time. She consistently put her self out there – way out there – even organizing her own events to provide one more venue to showcase her craft.

There was one tiny hiccup in her pursuit of musical acclaim: She could barely carry a tune. And she seemed completely in the dark on this one *slightly* important point.

Sure, some people told her straight up she was awful, but they were your usual group of hecklers, pouncing on every opportunity to mold humor or humiliation out of humans. Because they lacked credibility, she paid them little mind.

It was the rest of us who were secretly mortified on her behalf.

We groaned under our breath and cringed in the shadows as her voice hung over us in an awkward cloud of broken notes, marring our ear drums. She had all the right equipment: beautiful, solid guitar and the ability to play it, mics, amps, and a skilled sound board operator. She had everything but the voice.

She was a crippled bird and no one had enough mercy to shoot her down.

I had to hand it to her, though. She was doing what she wanted with little energy spent on the approval of mankind. Still, I will always wonder what she heard coming out of her own mouth. An etherial chorus? Alanis Morsette (it was the 90s)? Reality? Did she have any idea that she was beyond question not a singer or did she just not care?

Maybe the fact that no one respectable told her the truth was due in part to her special habit of getting what she wanted by force, never taking no for an answer, and slithering her way into the best slots and situations. Maybe. But maybe it’s simply that most humans are nice, not wanting to crush the dreams of one so doggedly enthusiastic.

Her continual presence on and off campus during a time when I was still timidly blooming into my own areas of artistry made me believe that most people are liars, especially when it comes to matters of creativity.

It’s the old “does this dress make me look fat?” question wrapped in artistic license. Normal people are forbidden to answer truthfully because normal people are supposed to be kind and gentle and vanilla. We wouldn’t want to shatter someone into a million pieces by telling them the truth. 

Maybe nice people just don’t know how to say it… ummm… nicely.

But because of the lies we collectively told Rachel back then, I am constantly telling myself now that what I am doing is must be awful because no one would possibly give truthful feedback. No decent human has the heart to let me know I should stop this instant or that I am embarrassing myself and making others uncomfortable. Instead, they will pat me softly on the back and say, “Great job! Keep it up! Trophies for all participants!”

Not wanting to crush, they caudal.

This is how I arrive at the loud notion that whatever I joyfully put my hand to is probably not my gift. I know the lies have muddied the water.

Her crowd is in my head and her face is in the center of that crowd. The murmurs and snickers and mental gagging are all present. With all my being I do not want to be a Rachel. The contrast of doing and knowing was so severe, it makes me wonder if I suffer the same disconnect from reality that she did. I want to step into the things I love without wondering if I’m made for them. 

Can I really do that?

A still, small voice says, “Yes. Do it. The time is now. It will be beautiful. Don’t look back.” 

It’s time to get Rachel out of my rear view mirror.