Why Talent is Overrated and it's Time you get the F"£% Off Your Couch
A love letter (and rather self-indulgent rant) to late bloomers, loud singers, and first steps
Have you ever seen someone do a perfect cartwheel in a park and thought,“she must’ve tumbled straight out of the womb like that.” Listened to a friend sing harmoniously and thought, "she has the voice of an angel". Admired the drawing, painting or sculpting skills of a creative and thought, “I could never do that"? Let’s pause that inner monologue right there. Actually, punch it right in the metaphorical face.
Because here’s the truth. Talent- that mystical, sparkly thing we think some people are born with- is not the deciding factor in success or happiness. Not in running, not in dancing, and not in life. And clinging to that belief that other people just can? Well it’s quietly stealing your courage and indiscriminate amounts of potential happiness.
I am writing these memoir-flavoured musings for the innumerable women in my life who want to try new things, but are absolutely terrified of failure. To be clear, I haven’t accomplished anything particularly impressive - nothing that would earn a keynote or a podcast feature. When I asked my partner for feedback, he suggested I anchor the piece with a few examples of truly remarkable people — the GOATs, the icons, the ones who make headlines and history. And then, ever so gently, he added that nothing in this story was especially noteworthy (my love, he said, to soften the blow). But that’s exactly the point. This is not a call for greatness but a rather quiet, stubborn anthem for trying. Not because you’re destined for glory, but because you deserve a life built from small, deliberate acts of courage.
I am writing this because I don't think we talk enough about how corrosive the myth of “natural talent” really is, or how uncomfortable we, I, am in investing time and resources into hobbies and interests as an adult that I will never excel at.
But what if trying, and failing, and trying again is the real magic?
The myth of "born with it" and why it's so damn demotivating
We are told both subtly and relentlessly that you either have “it” or you don’t. Some of us were born coordinated. Some of us are chosen for athletic teams. Some of us can sing, draw, swim, fence, talk multiple languages (maybe even all at the same time).
And then there are the rest of us. Who quietly internalise the message that we just weren’t born with it. That we lack the innate talent to pursue a particular skill or hobby. That feats of greatness, or even competence, belong to someone else.
In an earlier article The Other Runner, I spoke about growing up in a family with siblings who won accolades and who were gifted athleticism in droves. I, in turn, spent most of my life assuming I had been denied that skillset. I did not have fast-twitched muscles and golden quads driving me to gold. I tried on sports like outfits, but was often found wanting. Mediocre at best, and at worst? I left bloodied- in my own, and that of others.
I was not born with talent and I accepted and internalised that into my story- readily.
I also tried every single hobby you could possibly imagine in my youth. My kind parents endured ballet classes, little athletics, clarinet lessons, piano lessons, language school, art classes, basketball teams, netball teams, tennis competitions, rounders, and endless debating. The last the only thing I showed any real knack for. Mostly because anyone who knows me would say I am argumentative, loud, and could talk underwater with my mouth full of marbles. But born with “it”? Or any of "its" was not the case.
For years, I thought this lack of talent meant I was simply not meant for certain things, many things.
But then something shifted - not in my ability (god, no) but in my understanding.
From “not meant for it” to just begin, and begin again
I recently read a book that helped shift this mindset that maybe it wasn't talent I was lacking. In Talent Is Overrated, Geoff Colvin reminds us that success does not come pre-installed. It is built. Not through birth, if you are lucky grinding repetition, but through what researchers call deliberate practice: focused, feedback-driven, and just uncomfortable enough to spark growth. I have been sitting with this idea a lot lately. On day 1 of walking into the gym heavily overweight, managing considerable back pain and terribly unfit several years ago (with no idea where to begin), the path to health seemed monumental and honestly insurmountable. A lifetime of some people are born with it running through my head.
If only I could run laps as successfully as I can run circles in my own anxiety.
Just over two years later, I realise what I have done is built a life of deliberate practice. Am I talented as Colvin suggested? Fuck no. But am I uncomfortable and have I sparked growth? Yes, often (too often sometimes).
Finding harmony in my off-key attempts
Caption: Lips Choir rocking out a Beyonce number for our last Christmas gig in a 1500
This principle of deliberate practice and showing up is not just in my fitness or health journey but in my goal toward creating a life with more meaning.
For those unaware, last February I joined a non-auditioning, community, feminist, queer choir called Lips (forgive the self-promotion but check us out,- we are bloody awesome.) I turned up on day one absolutely terrified and for some reason I came back again, and again. The first year was awful. Not because of the choir itself, But it took a whole year of debilitating anxiety (tears on the way to, and from choir), and real questioning of my sanity on whether I should be there. I kept waiting for someone to tell me, "I am sorry I know we said we are a welcoming, non-auditioning choir but you are absolutely tone-deaf". I stuck with it- deliberately. I have mildly improved (at best). If I am surrounded by amazing, loud singers what I lack in talent, I can make up for in enthusiasm and lip-syncing when way out of my depth. I am still…well kind of shit. But I love it. I still feel anxiety going and occasional dread that someone is going to call me out on my ironic inability to really sing. But I am determined to not let a fear of failing, being perfect or talented enough, deny me the pure joy of singing with wild abandonment, with a set of extraordinary and rather wild, queer feminists.
When trying becomes the triumph
Athletes talk about grit and resilience as if they’re the secret sauce that separates champions from the rest of us mere mortals. The winners from the losers. The extraordinary from the ordinary. I don’t tend to think about life in those terms. And have rarely, if ever, thought of myself as resilient or driven by grit. I’m not trying to win here. I’m just trying to live a life that feels meaningful. To try new things. To chase dreams so I don’t wake up middle-aged (or somewhat more middle aged) and wonder where has my life gone?
I am not naturally talented. I am not particularly strong (or brave).
I have failed more times than I can count - spectacularly, publicly, and repetitively. In fact, if there’s been one constant in my life, it’s failure.
And yet, the one measure that matters to me most and that tells me if I’m “succeeding” is whether I’m still trying. Whether I’m willing to risk failing again, rather than settle into something safe and ordinary. Rather strangely people I admire keeping telling me that's grit and resilience. I call it being unhinged in just the right way.
But maybe that’s what it takes. The wild tenacity to aim for something extraordinary when you were born smack in the middle of mediocrity. (See my post A Feminist Killjoy’s Exploration of Mediocrity for more on this)
Because grit and resilience aren’t just motivational posters. They are the messy, and rather raw materials of the human condition. To be human is to fail, fall, and feel like an imposter - sometimes all before coffee and pastry. But grit is the quiet refusal to stay down or quiet. Resilience is the decision you make to get back up, even if it’s not graceful. To sing again, joyously and with abandon.
Neither grit nor resilience are about stoicism, rather daring. The courage to try again when your ego’s bruised and the outcome’s uncertain.
The quiet courage to be shit at something is where the magic happens
In movement, as in life, it’s showing up after a bad run. It’s walking into the gym when you feel like you don’t belong.
In artistic endeavours or pursuing your unrequited dreams, it’s trying the thing you’ve never been “good” at, just because you want to.
Not because you’re talented, or going to be glorious at it. But because deep down, some part of you still believes in becoming and evolving.
Even if it means stumbling through all the notes the whole damn way. Even if it means sweating (and swearing) your way through it all.
In Endure, Alex Hutchinson argues that limits of our body and the human condition are mostly set by the limits of our mind. Pain, fatigue and the desire to stop are mental governors, not physical barriers. His research echoes a truth we rarely speak aloud - that our perceived limits are usually lies we’ve rehearsed too well.
That voice in your head isn’t the truth, your truth. It’s just a chatty, anxious, slightly toxic arsehole who really needs a hobby.
So next time it tells you not to try. To stay small, stay safe, stay stuck. Smile politely, and tell it to fuck right off. Loudly, clumsily, gloriously and off-key. That’s not failure. That’s freedom.
There’s something radical, especially as a grown woman, about trying something you’re not good at. We’re taught to only do things we can ace. But what if you danced badly? Lifted the lightest weight at the gym? Painted poorly? Sang off-key loudly? Spoke French terribly? Perfection is boring.
Practice- the brave, bumbling, sweaty kind - is magic.
So get out there and try something. Practice the art of being bad, and doing it anyway. Your future self isn’t waiting for you to be ready or talented. She’s just quietly hoping you’ll try.
Something.
Anything.
Everything.
xo