Almost Trying

On effort that protects more than it risks

Today was the last day of my drafting course.

For most of it, I had one consistent thought: I’m really freakin’ terrible at this. (I used the word fuck but I’m trying here.)

It wasn’t dramatic. No spiral, no crisis. Just a low, steady hum in the background while I worked on my final project. Not loud enough to stop me, just present enough to feel like a reasonable conclusion.

This aligns with how I’ve understood myself for a long time. I was not a kid who colored inside the lines. I liked making things, I was and am an artiste afterall. But precision was never the point. I’m what I would describe as a Type A sloppy person—someone who cares deeply about the outcome, but struggles with the mechanics of getting there.

So taking a drafting course was, objectively, a strange choice. As you know, drafting is entirely about precision, calculations, angles.

What was less expected is that I liked it. I looked forward to my classes!

I liked the specificity. I liked measuring things twice and then, occasionally, ok often, still getting them wrong. I liked how it demanded my full attention in a way that felt almost medicinal. For a few hours at a time, I wasn’t thinking about anything else, which, for me, is highly unusual. I have a loud, mean internal voice loop that I am actively trying to quiet.

So it might come as no surprise that while I was working, I kept telling myself I would probably fail the class. And then I’d follow it with: that makes sense. This isn’t something I’m naturally good at. I’m left handed, this is harder for me. This was just for fun.

It sounds like acceptance. It has the tone of acceptance. But it works more like a preemptive explanation.

Because honestly, I don’t feel neutral about the outcome. I would like to pass. I would like to be competent. I would even, in a very real way, like to be good at it. When my inner mean girl wasn’t being an absolute bitch to me, I had fantasies of telling people I got an A+.

And yet, looking back (I finished the four page final project 3 minutes ago) I I can see where I stopped just short.

I never fully learned lettering. There are practical reasons for that. I’ve been sick. I have a one-year-old. Time is currently theoretical.

But it also seems possible that I left that piece unfinished on purpose.

Not in a dramatic, self-sabotaging way. More like a subtle hedge. Enough effort to stay engaged, but not enough to be fully exposed to the result.

If I don’t fully commit, the outcome stays slightly open-ended. I get to keep an explanation in reserve. “When will I ever even use drafting in my life? I just did it for fun.” A built-in qualifier.

Which, in theory, is protective.

In practice, it feels more like keeping myself in a state of low-grade suspense. Nothing resolves. Nothing lands cleanly. It’s less painful, maybe, but also less satisfying. Like stopping a movie ten minutes before the ending so you can maintain the belief that it could still go either way. Or… I won’t give you the other example I am thinking of.

And it’s hard not to notice how familiar that is.

In new friendships, where it’s unclear how much the other person actually wants to invest. In work, where following up might lead to something concrete, or nothing at all. In the smaller habits that would require consistency if I let them.

There’s often a moment where I pull back slightly. Not enough to disengage. Just enough to preserve ambiguity. To keep my self safe. My heart protected. My ego intact.

I’m still figuring out how to change it. Or find some middle ground.

What I do know is that I finished the course. I did it.

Which, under the circumstances, feels significant. I had pneumonia. I have a baby who is barely one. And I chose to spend my time doing something that requires patience, precision, and a willingness to redo the same line multiple times without taking it personally. Without fully berating myself. Without throwing in the towel.

I did it anyway.

I don’t know if I passed. I don’t know if I’ll keep the $900 worth of supplies or donate them in a brief, decisive moment that I later revisit with regret.

But it does feel useful to have watched this pattern play out in such a contained setting. It’s easier to see when the structure is clear and the stakes are relatively low.

The more relevant question is whether I’ll recognize it when it shows up somewhere less defined… where there’s no final project, no pass or fail, and no obvious point where I get to understand how it all shook out.

From my messy drafting table to yours,

xo Ingrid