People call someone who doesn’t like to lose a sore loser. But I’d argue there’s an even more common species out there: the sore beginner. You’ve seen them: those people who get visibly agitated, livid even, at not instantly mastering something they’ve literally just started.

Take a guy in my salsa and bachata class, for example. Every time he misses a step or turns the wrong way, he looks like he’s been personally insulted by rhythm itself. When we start learning a new figure, he gets so dramatic you'd think he was auditioning for a telenovela. Even the instructor had to tell him to relax as his intensity was throwing off the whole room.

By the way, my salsa and bachata level has recently skyrocketed from 0 to 1. Not bragging, just reporting the facts. Our whole group got an official level upgrade: we’re no longer "Absolute Beginners," we’re now proudly "Beginner Level 1."

It took us six months of three-hour weekly classes to earn that tiny but mighty digit.

So I fully empathize with our sore salsa beginner. After all that effort, how can we still stumble? But it turns out that getting away from zero is a continuous process. It is a cocktail of awkwardness, frustration, and curiosity, all served with a little dash of courage.

Drop the Ego, Not the Effort

Many of us become drama queens when we suck at something new, so what can we do about it?

I’m convinced that moving around a lot can actually ground you. Nothing reminds you that you're a perpetual beginner quite like uprooting your life. When I first moved to Vienna at 19 to start university, I thought I spoke decent German and had a solid grasp of what I wanted from life. Ah, the sweet delusions of youth.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered the existence of heavy dialects, used even in formal settings like university lectures. And then there was Buchhaltung und Kostenrechnung (financial and cost accounting), which I immediately knew was not my passion. Did I despair? Despair doesn’t quite cover it. I cried the way people brush their teeth: morning, night, and after every meal.

Overall, I’ve moved around twenty times across ten different countries, each one new, unfamiliar, and delightfully confusing. Along with that, I’ve completed a few degrees, learned a few languages, and pivoted several careers. With every move, I’d get a fresh reminder that bureaucracy had me by the throat, that standing in lines was a metaphor for life, and that loneliness, to some extent, was negotiable. Every time I reached out, there was at least one friendly face waiting on the other end.

These experiences, I believe, have seriously wounded the perfectionist in me. Don’t get me wrong, she’s still lurking in the shadows, clutching her color-coded folders. But I always remind myself that I’ve been here before. Every time I attempt something new and get terrified, I tell myself: If you managed to present your PhD thesis comparing the economy of post-WWII Japan and socialist Yugoslavia, in Japanese, just two months after your vocabulary peaked at “arigato,” you can do this too.

That usually sends the perfectionist and her oversized ego scurrying back to their cave.

Laugh When You Fall (Because You Will)

It's not about you. Nobody’s laughing at you. In fact, most people aren’t even paying attention. And if they are, it’s rarely a personal attack. It’s usually just… life being life.

When I first started learning Spanish, I’d sometimes confuse it with Italian and end up saying things that were at least mildly offensive. One time, I had a whole table of people in tears - from laughter, thankfully. I don’t blame them, my lapsus was really funny. And you know what? I laughed with them. Because yes, it’s mortifying to become a walking meme, but a good dose of self-deprecating humor can get you anywhere.

But let’s not romanticize it too much, as there’s a messier truth underneath. Embarrassment is real. So is self-doubt. There were days I felt like quitting, convinced that I’d never be fluent, never get the grammar, never stop feeling like an idiot for using the wrong preposition.

Psychologists call this the imposter syndrome, that creeping suspicion that you’re a fraud, that your successes are flukes, and that everyone around you has it more together than you do. Combine that with spotlight effect (our tendency to believe everyone notices our mistakes more than they actually do), and you’ve got the perfect recipe for self-conscious paralysis.

Progress, in moments like that, feels glacial. You show up. You bumble your way through conversations. You wonder if your brain has quietly gone on strike. And there’s no trumpet sound when things click, just a very slow shift. One day, someone speaks quickly to you in Spanish, and you don’t freeze. Another day, you realize you’ve just told a story using the subjuntivo, and no one corrected you. Quiet victories.

The truth is, most learning isn’t linear. It’s a loop of two steps forward, one step sideways, and an occasional dramatic flop for flair. You don’t suddenly wake up confident, you earn it. Seven years after my initial stumbling, I speak Spanish well. Yes, I still say the occasional ridiculous thing, but that’s part of the deal. And I continue to laugh.

Keep Baking the Cake

And since I’m clearly not here to present a polished TED Talk version of myself, let me confess: I’m not a great cook. Not even a decent one. During COVID, like many delusional optimists, I thought this would be my transformation arc.

Of course, I tried to bake. My biggest challenge to date remains orange cake, which, for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out. The cursed cake turned out like a pudding every single time. My poor man sampled each attempt, always mumbling something like, “Umm… I think it’s getting better” because love is blind and conquers all.

In truth, the cake was inedible. I threw it all out, blamed the oven, and declared, “Well, my neighborhood cafe makes one anyway, and it’s much better.” And I never tried again.

Don’t be like me.

Make as many metaphorical (and literal) orange cakes as it takes for them to be edible. Embrace the mess. Earn the joy of micro-progress. Show up, fail creatively, and keep going until one day, something that felt impossible becomes a thing you simply do, without a second thought.

Lessons from Being a Beginner

After a few decades of globe-hopping, crying in public bathrooms, and committing repeated crimes against citrus-based desserts, I’ve come to a quiet but solid conclusion: being a beginner is one of life’s most underrated superpowers. It’s awkward, humbling, a little embarrassing, and occasionally teary, but it teaches you more than any degree or certificate ever could.

1. Humility is weirdly freeing.

I recently started a new role at work that I thought would be easier than it actually is. Cue daily meetings where I feel like a confused but eager intern, politely asking people to explain basic things like I’ve just landed from another galaxy. And honestly, it’s freeing. There’s real relief in not pretending to know. When you drop the need to impress, you make space for actual learning and for connecting with people who are often more than happy to help.

2. Playfulness beats performance.

You thought I was bad at cooking? You should see me draw. Arts was second only to Sports on my list of childhood humiliations. So naturally, as an adult, what did I do? I enrolled in an interior design course for a full year, with homework and rulers and terms like “negative space.” Call it exposure therapy.

To be clear, I’m still no Velázquez, but I can sketch a lamp that looks vaguely like a lamp. My perception sharpened, and I started noticing light, texture, proportions. For my final project, I designed my next apartment. I learned more by playing than I ever did by trying to be perfect. That’s the point: you don’t have to be good, you just have to be interested.

3. Empathy grows where you struggle.

Empathy is trending, and for good reason, observing the times we live in. Nothing grows empathy quite like struggling through something new. I used to think runners were unhinged. Now, after years of trying, I am one. A slow, occasionally melodramatic runner, but still.

I hated running. Still kind of do. But now when I see someone red-faced and panting on the sidewalk, I don’t judge, I silently salute them. Because I know what it costs to keep going when every cell in your body votes to quit. You start to root for people more when you’ve been where they are.

4. Curiosity is enough.

Somewhere along the line, we turned hobbies into hustles and progress into pressure. But you don’t have to be great at something for it to matter. You just have to be curious. I now collect ‘firsts’ like some people collect stamps: the first time I danced salsa without apologizing mid-spin. The first time I understood a Spanish joke in real time. The first time I ran 5K without giving up at 0.5K.

Each “first” reshapes how I see myself, not as someone who must excel, but as someone who is always becoming.

5.Your brain wants you to try.

Psychologists call this a growth mindset: the belief that abilities can be developed through effort and time. Neuroscientists call it neuroplasticity, i.e. your brain literally rewiring itself in response to new challenges. Your brain wants you to try, fail, repeat. That’s how it grows.

You’ve probably heard this before, but it’s worth repeating:

Julia Child didn’t learn to cook until her 40s. (Maybe I’ll give that orange cake another shot.)
Mark Twain wrote Huckleberry Finn at 49. (Time to finally write that first novel.)
Grandma Moses started painting at 75. (That one’s still a firm ‘never’ for me).

The point is, none of those people were prodigies. They were just curious, and they didn’t let a few flops define them.

So here’s your invitation: Try something new and be bad at it. Enroll in a dance class. Buy a sketchpad.

Pick something you’ve always wanted to try.
Give yourself four weeks to explore it with zero pressure to improve.
Keep a “Beginner’s Log”—a short weekly note on what you tried, how it felt, and what made you smile.
Laugh often. Show up anyway.

Begin. You're in good company.

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Beginner’s Mind: The Freedom of Being Outrageously Bad at Something