Of Potential and Praise

Photo by Stesson Bezuidenhout

I have a weird relationship with potential. My own, specifically. You see, dear reader, I always loved school, and I adored my teachers almost without exception (though Mrs. Jones took a popsicle away from me in kindergarten—a public shaming and injustice that left me smarting, popsicle-less, and incapable of remembering anything positive she may have done the rest of the year. So much for bygones, I suppose).

I was among the oldest in my grade, a book-reading, hand-raising, eagerly-participating nerd who was terribly hungry for praise. Oh praise, you delicious little drug. I’ve been hooked for as long as I can remember. 

When I was 9 or 10 years old, I had a sort of spiritual awakening. It was a summer of bike riding, especially the 15 minute route to my Uncle Craig’s house who had three pugs and a freezer full of popsicles (Apparently there were no lasting traumatic associations, Mrs. Jones. Be at peace.) 

One day, when I was halfway home, I paused on my bi…