Because I can

I write, though I am not good. I sing, though I do not sing well. I dance, though I am stiff. I try, when I can.

When I can do everything yet nothing at the same time, what does that make me? When I can do just enough but never enough to be good, what would you call me? When do I stop being someone who can do just about anything and become someone actually good at something?

“Kaya mo ‘yan (You can do it),” my mom would say. She always did, with a smile on her face, and full faith that I would be able to.

In her smile, I saw dozens more who echoed the same, “Kaya niya ‘yan (She can do it).”

Because yes, I can. And most of the time, I do.

But just because I can doesn’t mean that it comes easily. I just happen to know how to finish that essay, but I rarely know how to use the proper punctuation; I know how to write enough words to fill the pages, but not enough to feel like they deserve to be read. I know how to stay on beat, but not how to move my body along with my steps. I know how to hold a tune, but not how to sing without second-guessing every note. I have learned how to raise my hand even when I am unsure, how to smile before singing into a microphone, how to count beats loudly enough for my groupmates to follow, even when I am counting mostly for myself. I know how to perform the part of someone capable. I know how to make it look like I know what I am doing, even when I am figuring it out as I go. But there is a very big gap between being able to do something and being able to do something well.

And that thought always lingers. It rings in my head every time someone praises something I know I barely managed to do. It is not because I was not able to do it, but because I can do many things just enough for people to believe in me, but not a single thing well enough for me to believe in myself.

They see me write essays spanning 10 pages and think I’m good with words. They hear me sing and assume I’m confident. They see me try in class and assume I am smart. They see me become a class officer and assume I can lead. They see everything I am capable of, yet nothing about why I am afraid.

Afraid that I am good, only because I try hard enough. That if I stop, I’ll have nothing left. That everyone will see what I’ve always believed is true, that effort is all I have. And effort is not the same as talent.

But my mom always said, “Talo ng masipag ang matalino (The industrious one defeats the smart one).”

So, I try.

Because still, behind my mother’s smile, everyone recites “Kaya mo’ yan.”

I know they mean no harm. I know these words are meant to comfort me. But most of the time, they feel more like a responsibility than reassurance. Like I am not allowed to fail because people have already decided that I can do it. Like every time someone believes in me, I have to prove that their belief was not misplaced.

And maybe that is why I keep trying so hard. Because if enough people believe in me, maybe one day I will believe them too. Maybe if enough people say that I am good, then it must mean there is some truth to it. Maybe their certainty can make up for the lack of my own.

I used to always say, “fake it till you make it,” which is funny, because I realize that I may have lived out my own twisted version of it. Except I am not pretending to be confident. I am borrowing confidence from everyone else. I let their belief carry me when I cannot carry myself. I let their words become proof, even when I do not fully trust them. Because maybe if I keep trying like someone who is capable, someone who is good, someone who deserves to be believed in, then one day I will stop feeling like I am only trying.

Maybe one day, I will believe it, too.

But maybe being capable of doing anything means that I am good at something.

See Also

I came to learn croissants, I left thinking about flour

Maybe it means I am good at starting, even when I am scared. Maybe it means I am good at showing up, even when I feel small. Maybe it means I am good at trying again and again, until effort stops feeling like a weakness and starts becoming proof that I have always been here, trying.

So I write, not because I’m good, but because I can.

I sing, not because I sing well, but because I can.

I dance, not because I’m graceful, but because I can.

So I keep trying, because still, I can.

And maybe, for now, that is something. Maybe it is not the kind of something people put on a stage, or publish, or praise loudly. But it is mine. It is the quiet proof that even if I am not yet good in the way I want to be, I am still trying. And maybe trying counts, too, even when it is slow and uncertain, even when I feel like it doesn’t.

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Mia Estelle Gonzales, 18, is a first-year accountancy student at the University of the Philippines Los Baños.