In a contrarian version of “the grass is always greener,” we tend to discount the value, importance and urgency of our own dreams. In a subtle form of self-preservation, we find ourselves rejecting compliments people give us for doing what we love. When someone notices we’re good at something, we respond:

“Oh that, that’s nothing. It’s just something I like to do in my spare time.”

The soundtrack we play in our minds is that our gift is nothing. Our dream really isn’t that meaningful. It is just a bit of gossamer we play with sometimes. Don’t think twice about it.

The longer you play this soundtrack, the easier it is to believe it, especially if someone who matters to you tells you that your dream doesn’t matter. Teachers, bosses, sometimes even parents will tell you that you’re not good enough to pursue a particular dream. The more we develop the muscle of doubt, the stronger it becomes. But the doubt is still a deception.

If you recognize that, if you admit that there is a chance that you are good, perhaps even great at something, you should feel a little uncomfortable. Because if your gift is not nothing, that means it is something. And a gift that is something is always a little terrifying, for at least three reasons:

Nothing can’t hurt you.
If your gift is something, then the pull to explore it is always there. You are compelled even if only by curiosity to at least try. Maybe you won’t jump off a cliff for this something, but your chances of getting hurt are dramatically greater from pursuing something than nudging up to nothing.

Nothing is comfortable.
Call it the “better the devil you know than the devil you don’t know” syndrome. We’re familiar with the nothing lie. It feels like an old sweater at this point, and we like that. The unknowns of a dream are just too disconcerting. What evils might arise? We’d rather not find out.

Nothing is normal.
People with somethings are weird. In his book Orbiting the Giant Hairball: A Corporate Fool’s Guide to Surviving with Grace, Gordon MacKenzie says that if you ask a roomful of first graders, “How many artists are there in the room?” they all eagerly raise their hands. If you ask a roomful of third graders, only a third of the class raises their hands. MacKenzie laments, “The higher the grade, the fewer children raised their hands. By the time I reached sixth grade, no more than one or two did so and then only ever-so-slightly—guardedly—their eyes glancing from side to side uneasily, betraying a fear of being identified by the group as a closet artist.”7 And it’s not just art that we feel that way about. It’s dreams too. We are embarrassed to have big, unruly somethings and would much rather go with the flow and have a normal life like everyone else. Not at thirty or even twenty years old. We begin thinking this way at eleven or twelve.