Simply not the best

Lately I’ve noticed I’m constantly using superlatives. In both French and in English, I can barely stop myself from using them or adverbs to intensify meaning: it was too cute or so good. Then I heard myself asking my ten year old cousin her favorite color, her best friend, her most important stuffed animal. Which led me to consider this hierarchical, competitive notion I was injecting into the conversation without even realizing it.

I don’t have a very competitive spirit. I liked when Tom and Jerry united against the bulldog better than when they were pitted against each other. My sister will tell you I was a sore loser as a kid, which I was. But it was the sense of injustice when she rubbed her wins in my face that enraged me, not that I had lost. I was the youngest child and my brain hadn’t developed enough to take myself out of the mind game. Instead, I’d flip the Monopoly board over and ask her who was winning now. Deep down, I liked for everyone to play, to get along. My nephew was puzzled when I said I liked playing more than winning. I get it — we’re socially composed to do better than others, to jump higher, score better, make more money. Outdo, outgrow, outspend.

But competition pushes us to do better, stronger, faster right? Sure. But is that always a win? Yes, more hours of training can lead to better times. But at what cost? Worn-down joints, chronic pain, burnout — the consequences of pushing a body or mind beyond its capacity in a race against what, exactly?

And I say this as someone who watches the Olympics and other competitions, fascinated by the human body, what it can endure, and master. That being said, we rarely discuss the sacrifices of these athletes, vaguely have an article about the ones who die unexpectedly young or in deep pain, and certainly never celebrate the ones who made the same sacrifices and didn’t make it.  This makes me feel like I’m an “animal lover” who enjoys the zoo, where the caged animals are there for my temporary viewing pleasure.  Is the system that only highlights the best, the greatest results the only way? In France, medical students are required to take a national exam where the ranking will determine what speciality you will have access to. Forget your passion for children and pediatrics, you didn’t score high enough. Be a dentist. 

I recently finished reading in The Talent Code, which challenges the idea that exceptional ability is innate — that some people are just born with it. Instead, it suggests that what looks like raw talent is usually the result of a specific kind of effort. Deep practice. Repetition, frustration, error correction, doing the same thing the wrong way until you start doing it the right way without even knowing how the shift occurred. That’s not glamorous. It doesn’t fit well in a highlight reel. Or the sitting of one exam. But it’s where the actual change happens. The culture of bests, mosts, and favorites doesn’t leave much room for that kind of process. We praise results and overlook the practice. We say someone is gifted, when in fact they may have spent years working in obscurity, failing and recalibrating. The stories we tell about talent often erase the labor. And when we keep repeating those stories, we risk reinforcing the belief that if something doesn’t come easily, it must not be meant for us.

I want to keep that from bleeding into how I talk to people and especially children. We push them to name their favorite this and best that. We unconsciously rank things, even feelings. Instead of just noticing what they enjoy, what makes them curious, what they might want to do again — we ask them to pick a winner. A favorite color. A best friend. All of this setting the scene and as if those answers define them somehow.

But learning, growing, even just being, actually none of that needs to be ranked. What if it’s okay for things to be medium? For some moments to be just okay? What if we valued attention more than achievement? What if progress was measured not by surpassing others, but by continuing to try even when it’s hard or boring or  most of all: invisible. That’s quite the challenge.

This isn’t an anti-excellence stance. It is beautiful to watch people who can do things well. But I’m interested in what’s underneath that — the how, not just the result. And I think The Talent Code explains it well: most extraordinary capacities aren’t dropped from the sky. They’re built, quietly, over time and often away from the public eye.

So I’m making a concerted effort to tone down the superlatives. I have already caught myself twice today. Not because my joy or excitement aren’t real, but because I don’t want to promote that only the best is valuable. Sometimes it’s enough that it happened, that it was shared, that it was understood. Like the one and only triathlon I ever did, I came in absolute last. But I wouldn't have been more proud if I had won. I had trained hard, I didn’t give up, I outdid myself, not anyone else. And when my friend, who was pregnant and competing too,  asked if we could stop to pee on the final lap of the run, we hid in the bushes and giggled, before crossing the finish line together. And when we are there to play, rather than win, we can be the best versions of ourselves. I don’t know if we can say the same in competition. Maybe it’s okay for things to grow slowly, without a ranking or a medal or even a label. And when I next pick up my little cousin, I won’t ask “Who won, how did you do?” I will rephrase the question to, “What are you working on, did you keep trying, what did you enjoy?”