There’s a classic mob movie image: someone standing on a dock, shoes full of concrete, about to meet an unhappy end. Here’s the thing. Most of us never need a gangster to arrange that. We pour the concrete ourselves, lace it up tight, and then wonder why we’re not moving.
I do this more than I’d like to admit. Not constantly, but reliably enough to be embarrassing. The trigger is almost always the same: I want something to be excellent before I’ve even started. A new method at work, a new dish in the kitchen. Doesn’t matter. The moment I decide it has to be perfect, I’ve already made it harder.
Big ambitions are my natural habitat. Small goals feel like giving up. But there’s a catch. When the bar is always sky-high, every stumble feels like failure, and enough stumbles in a row will quietly talk you out of trying. I’m not suggesting you lower your standards permanently. Just not on day of learning something new.
Consider drivers. Study after study finds that the overwhelming majority believe they’re above average behind the wheel. Statistically, this is a carnival mirror; it can’t reflect reality. Psychologists have a name for it: the above-average effect.
Which brings me back to the concrete shoes. Remember your first driving lesson? You stalled at a roundabout. You signaled the wrong way. “Average” would have felt like a compliment. And yet you kept going, and at some point the car started doing what you told it to.
So next time you’re standing at the start of something new, aim for average. Just good enough to get moving. Once the concrete is off your feet, you’ll be surprised how fast you find your stride.
Warm regards, Ralph
