Having the Passion but Not the Talent
A Jack of all trades, master of none, better than a master of one?
“I keep turning over new leaves, and spoiling them, as I used to spoil my copybooks; and I make so many beginnings there will never be an end” — Louisa May Alcott, Little Women
I don’t know what I’m good at. Honestly, I don’t. I can technically do many things, yes, but I crave nothing more than to be great at something. I watch people be great and they seem to be at peace, so fulfilled, being great and doing great and bringing that greatness to the world. Athletes who seem superhuman, artists who can make what’s in their heads flow from their hands. I know that I am likely great at something, but I fear I will never find out. I could have such a niche talent, and there’s every chance I don’t try that one thing, I don’t realize I can also be great. I think about this too long, too often.
Now, there is a lot that I like to do. I don’t want this to come off as me complaining about being bored. I enrich my life with many things. Singing in my kitchen, reading, painting with friends, learning, dancing, crocheting coasters or scarves or bookmarks, writing—but I am not exceptional. I have the passion, but not the talent.
I rarely keep a single painting I make. I can see my vision so clearly. It’s unique, it’s waiting to greet the world, but I can’t transfer it. It yellows and fades and crumbles in my head, never getting the chance to become real. I have started and scrapped more poems and books than I can count. I love sports, the show of skill and physicality, yet I lack any athletic predisposition. I often catch myself scrambling, grabbing onto random pieces of my life and of myself in an attempt to come up with some greatness, somewhere, it has to be here, where is it, please, I- I come up with nothing. Half-filled notebooks, playing basic scales on the piano, stories in my head that nobody, not even myself, will ever get to read.
This isn’t anything new to me or the people around me. My mom has told me (countless, infuriating times) that I don’t need to be good at something to do it. She means well—I’m sure seeing my consistent disappointment isn’t what she wants for me—but I have never been able to accept this. Maybe I’m the greatest at having such a stubborn need to be great? I have such high expectations and hopes for everything I do. But, it is as if everything that comes from my hands is tragically, devastatingly average. I am like the antithesis of Midas, handed the tools and desire to create gold but churning out coal and coal and coal.
I am Sylvia Plath. The fig tree is there, so full of life and so bountiful. The figs are ripe. But, instead of sitting at the base, paralyzed by my options, watching each opportunity fall and rot, I am scrambling for them. I try climbing the tree, but the bark digs into my legs, and I can’t get any good footing. I try, childishly, to jump, reaching my hand up towards one fig and then another, never being able to grab it. Unable to bite into it and feel true satisfaction. When I leave the fig tree, I have an armful of rotten fruit and disappointment.
The reason I’m writing this is because I know I’m not alone. Because I’m stubborn, this doesn’t make me feel much better, but I still like knowing it anyway. I think. There was a trend about all of this a while back on TikTok. People were posting about their passions and how frustrating it is to need to be great and yet be unable to do so. The bitter irony is that the opposite seems to be true for some people, too. A different side of the trend featured people showcasing their incredible talents (breathtaking art, effortless dance, playing an instrument, etc.) that they have absolutely no passion for. To be honest, seeing these videos upset me at first. How could they just throw it all away? Don’t they want to be great? Don’t they know that I would give anything to be able to do what they do? But now, I see that this might haunt them in a way I can’t understand. Maybe they beat themselves up over this, hate themselves, wish that they would just start that next story, pick up their paintbrush, and are left wondering why they can’t seem to care.
Which one are you? Jack of all trades, master of none? A passionless master of one? Or maybe you’ve never thought about any of this at all, never looked at your life this way. And that’s cool too. I (sometimes) hold onto hope that we’ll all figure it out.
Currently, i feel like i'm a jack of all trades, master of none
i do think this'll change down the line - how that'll go, i don't know!