TO THE ONE WHO’S JUST BEGINNING- A ROOKIE’S REPORT

February 21, 2026
Angel Agugua

I always pictured myself doing something and doing it badly.

Not in a self-deprecating way. More like: I knew that if I ever tried something new, especially in public, it wouldn’t be pretty. I’ve spent years consuming other people’s perfection—watching polished videos, effortless creativity, their seemingly natural confidence—and somewhere along the way, my taste outgrew my courage, and with it, the threshold that I would have to climb to be satisfied.

But what happens when the thing you want to do requires being seen? in public

A few weeks ago, I decided to try something I’d been avoiding: a 10-day gentle reset series on Instagram. Daily posts. Planning. Actual consistency.

I told myself it was about showing up. About practicing. About becoming the kind of person who doesn’t just admire other people’s bravery from a distance, but seeks to engage it experientially.

What I didn’t prepare for was how it would actually feel.

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Day 1: The Decision

The first day felt like jumping off a ledge.

I felt excited. Didn’t even need a script. I had multiple takes, deleting recording after recording, and even then, I felt alive, my veins surging with dopamine.

I tried to film in advance for the first 3 days and have those down. A few more hundred takes later, with my voice sounding strange and my hands looking awkward, my eyes never seeming to focus in the right place… why did I think this was a good idea again?

But I posted it anyway.

And for about three hours, I felt like someone who does hard things. Someone who takes up space. Someone who doesn’t wait for permission.

Then I watched it back.

The lighting was off. I stumbled over a few words. My energy felt flat compared to what was alive in my head when I first imagined this series.

Still—I’d done it. Day 1: complete.

Day 4: The First Wave of Doubt

By Day 4, the cracks started showing.

Not in the content itself, but in my relationship to it. I’d catch myself mid-recording, suddenly hyper-aware of every gesture, every pause, every time I said “um.” I felt tense, uneasy, and it all began to look too serious to me. I began to wonder if I actually even knew what I wanted to say or if it made any sense.

It was like my brain had split in two: one half trying to be present, the other half watching from the corner of the room, judging everything I was doing wrong.

I edited and posted Day 4 and didn’t look at it again.

This is the part no one tells you about trying something new: your body doesn’t know the difference between “risky” and “uncomfortable.” “New” and “unsafe”. To your nervous system, posting a video and walking through a dark alley trigger the same alarm. Not because you’re in danger, but because you’re in uncertainty.

And to the mind, Uncertainty=Threat. Threat=Uncertainty.

So even though I was objectively safe—sitting in my room, talking to a camera—my brain treated it like I was in danger. My amygdala kicked in. My prefrontal cortex (the part responsible for clarity and creativity) took a back seat. All the alarms were going off.

By Day 5, I was already looking for alternatives, wondering what on earth made me want to do 10. Like, why couldn’t I have just done a 5-day series instead?

Still, I forged ahead.

Day 7: The Realization

Day 7 was when I realized it wasn’t going to look the way I’d pictured.

The pacing was off. Some days felt forced. Other days I ran out of time and ideas, and couldn’t even bother to put in as much effort. The “gentle reset” I’d envisioned—soft, cohesive, intentional—was starting to look more like a messy experiment held together with duct tape and hope.

I had reached the point where I would usually give up on things like this. I was ready to stop.

Not dramatically. Just quietly. Let it fade. Stop posting and hope no one noticed.

But then I thought about all the times I’d watched other people try something new—people learning to paint, or starting a podcast, or learning a new language, or sharing their first essay—and how I always thought, Look at you go. Letting your voice be heard. Seeking out new ways to express yourself.

I never judged them for being beginners. I admired them for it.

So why couldn’t I extend that same grace to myself?

Day 10: What Finishing Taught Me

I finished.

Not perfectly. Not the way I’d imagined. But I finished. And I’m super excited about it.

And here’s the strange thing: the disappointment I felt didn’t cancel out the accomplishment. They existed side by side. Two sides of the same coin.

On one hand, I could see all the gaps. The places where my vision didn’t match my execution. The moments when my hands couldn’t adequately express the force that was generated in my head.

On the other hand, I’d completed something. I’d given myself permission to be a beginner again, and that by itself is exhillerating.

We don’t talk enough about the stage of growth where effort and outcome don’t yet match. Where you know what good looks like because you’ve consumed so much of it, but your own work doesn’t reflect that yet.

It’s not regression. It’s growth.

New neural pathways are forming. Connections that will strengthen with repetition. Every awkward video, every stumbled sentence, every imperfect post is evidence.

Evidence that you did the thing and survived. That nothing catastrophic happened. That you can tolerate discomfort and keep going anyway.

This is what people mean when they say it gets easier over time. Not that the work itself becomes effortless, but that your nervous system stops treating it like a crisis. It softens.

What I’m Learning to Ask

When I look back at those 10 days now, I’m trying not to judge the output.

Instead, I’m asking:

What was I practicing in real time?

Courage. Consistency. The ability to tolerate my own imperfection.

What discomfort was I learning to live with?

Being seen. Being a beginner. Not having control over how I’m perceived.

How was I adapting in the moment?

Showing up even when I didn’t feel ready. Posting even when it didn’t feel polished. Finishing even when it didn’t match the picture in my head.

The Thing About Growth

Growth doesn’t owe us polish at every stage.

Sometimes the most courageous thing you can do is keep going when it’s messy. When your work doesn’t yet reflect your vision. When you’re learning in public, and every mistake feels magnified.

Your standards aren’t the problem. They’re a compass. They tell you where you’re headed. But they’re not meant to be a measuring stick for where you are right now.

Because here’s the truth: the expert in anything was once a beginner. And is now the beginner who just kept showing up, even when it didn’t feel like enough.

I’m still figuring out what it means to do something badly and do it anyway.

But I think that’s the point.

What are you practicing right now—even when it doesn’t feel like enough?