On "owning" my flaws and struggles and mistakes

Self awareness is necessary—but not sufficient

In recent years I’ve obsessed over “owning” my flaws. If I point out my inconsistencies and annoyances and downright ugliness before anyone else gets the chance to, those traits can’t hurt me, right? If I know who I am and what I struggle with, I’ll be immune to the world’s criticism. I might even look like a Super Stand-Up Mature Role Model of Vulnerability and Authenticity—and if I look like that to others, I can pretend more easily to myself (and thus resist the impetus to actually improve).

This has worked, sort of. But it’s not enough.

It’s not enough to just know I struggle with something. It’s not enough to acknowledge it publicly. It is not, even, enough to plainly tell people my baggage might mar our interactions (“but I’m getting out ahead of it, so like, you can’t blame me in a month”).

In college I had a brief relationship with a guy who warned me from day one that he couldn’t commit. He felt stating this at the beginning of our time together absolved him of responsibility. He told me what was coming—I gave informed consent. We can argue about precisely how stupid I was to pursue our connection when he’d made himself so clear (certainly my friend group at the time had plenty to say) but I’d like to think it’s obvious that simply saying “I lose interest in women quickly” did not make his actions—his mixed signals, his own intense pursuit of me, his out-of-nowhere withdrawal—okay. He was self aware, but he was not kind. He brandished knowledge of his “dark side” like a panacea. See, it said, I am a good person because I understand how messed up I am. Enter at your own risk.

Clearly labeling a hazard does not make the hazard benign. Self awareness is necessary—but it is not sufficient.

Why have so many of us, this writer included, felt it’s all we have to do to obtain “decent human being” status?

There’s so much forced vulnerability on my Instagram feed these days. So much clout to be gained by admitting your flaws. But less, it seems, in actively trying to work on those flaws. In fact, talking too much about bettering yourself is uncouth—don’t become a productivity bro, don’t make others feel inadequate, don’t dare to change something in yourself another person might see in their own mirror.

I like the self-acceptance movement. (I’ve needed a lot of it; sometimes I am still so insecure I miss opportunities, self sabotage, curl up in bed feeling small instead of seeing the world.) But I don’t want acceptance to be at odds with improvement. It’s a sneaky juxtaposition; these things seem mutually exclusive. But only seem.

Yesterday I started reading Hidden Potential by Adam Grant, a book I’d probably have never picked up if not for John Green’s recommendation late last year. (I put it on hold immediately and only just received it; I started as number 400-and-something on the waitlist.)

In the second chapter Grant asks two questions about how we respond to feedback. Are we reactive or proactive in gathering information? And when we take it in, is our goal to fan our own ego—or to properly grow?

Too often my goal has been ego. I see this in the dog space; once I acquired even a modest reputation as someone with good things to say, I became afraid to “think out loud” as much as I used to. What if I profess an idiotic point? What if I miss something obvious? Even when I read dog-related books—a situation where I try to check my assumptions at the front cover—I find myself subtly avoiding insights that make me feel stupid. I am proactive about gathering opinions and perspectives, yes. But I do not always look at them with a clear goal of “become better” in mind.

All this begs the question of who a better person even is. I do not dislike myself; I think I’m rather lovely. I’ve put in enormous work since mid-college to be smarter and kinder and more open to nuance.

But being proud of myself, today, is not incompatible with wanting to grow tomorrow. There is much I yearn to do—publish a book, connect with fellow dog lovers on a grander scale, consistently write sentences I’m happy rereading—that I simply do not have the skills for at present.

For example: I am a terrible procrastinator when I want something to be perfect. I do not have the resources to do this at the very highest level right now, I think, so I shouldn’t do it right now. Obviously that’s an illogical conclusion. I know that, and I know the application of a better approach (say, finishing a rough draft as quickly as possible so I have a starting point to work with) is something I struggle with. But even though I never actually miss deadlines—I manage to pull things together at the last minute when needed, often in a sort of spectacular way my high school teachers would insist can’t be done—I’m not happy with this trait. I want to do more than acknowledge and work around it. I want to work through it.

I am trying to create a world where I honor the core parts of myself while honing the jagged edges. Not because it isn’t okay to be a little rough. Not because I despise my natural traits and tendencies. Not because I insist on chasing perfection for perfection’s sake.

But because life—my experience of it and my contributions to it—can get better if I move beyond self awareness and into self improvement.

I am sensitive. I do not need to change this; I do not want to change this. But I can improve my response to constructive criticism. I can develop stronger coping mechanisms to guide me through moments of social-anxiety turmoil. I can practice being uncomfortable.

Once again I’m struck by how much my own journey parallels my dog’s. Honor her core self—and help her grow in meaningful ways. Emphasis on meaningful. It’s not about someone else’s idea of perfection; it’s not about cramming ourselves into a tidy box; it’s not about anything arbitrary. It’s about core values and long-term goals and the necessary balance of contentment with hunger. Respect who she is today—and dream, within reason, of who we might together become tomorrow. Love her, every part of her, even the ones that make life difficult—and ask what changes would brighten the road ahead.