My last post had a typo in it. (A missing “u” in the word “squirm”.)
I hate being wrong. I hate making mistakes. Especially public ones.
At first my reaction was to laugh, because hey, it’s just a spelling mistake, right? But then I was like… should I take it down? I could correct it, and re-post it another day. But it had already been up for hours. Friends had already liked it and commented on it. And it’s not like the original was incomprehensible; the typo didn’t make it any less clear.
But still, it glared at me. Reminding me that I fucked up.
In my head, I went through all the ways I’d let it happen.
I was listening to podcasts while sculpting the letters. (“I shouldn’t have been multi-tasking!”) I only showed the piece to one person before posting. (“I should have a bigger review circle!”) It’s not possible to spell-check physically-crafted words. (“I should have a system for that!”) And so on.
I don’t know about you, but I can’t help feeling a tad smug when I notice a typo in a book. Like, “Ha! They should have had me read this, I could have saved them from this embarrassment!” … as if they should feel bad for having one typo, when they’ve managed to write a book, have it published, and read by a ton of people, including me.
Anyway, I know I’m making a big fuss out of this typo, as if it’s the worst thing I ever did in my life. But I’ve obviously made worse mistakes. Work mistakes that were money-scary. Friend mistakes that hurt relationships. Personal choice mistakes that put me in dangerous situations.
I’ve said and done all kinds of stupid shit. Cringe-y, regretful stuff that I can’t forget or take back.
Fucking up sucks hard.
But with every mistake, there is an opportunity for me to look inside and extract value. I can choose to ignore it and stay the same, or harness it and make a change.
I’m no longer willing to hate myself for my mistakes. I will forgive myself. I’m proud of myself for trying, for putting myself out there, and growing in the process. So fuck it. My post with a typo lives on.