If You Must Cringe, Cringe and Do It Anyway

Cringe has been one of the biggest blockers in my life.

I grew up with this idea that if you try hard at something and fail, that's bad. And if you do something outside of what people perceive you as? Well, that's worse. You're trying too hard to be someone you're not. You're being fake. Pretentious.

The people you see on TV, the ones who are cool, the ones doing the things you secretly want to do: they're meant to do those things. Nobody questions their identity. They might get judged on execution, how well they dance, how they deliver a line, but never on the audacity of trying in the first place. They clearly are who they are.

For the rest of us? We needed permission first. At least I did. I felt like I needed some level of approval from people before I could do something. Some signal that it was okay for me to want this.

I recently posted two YouTube videos documenting my journey. I'm taking a stylistic approach to them because I want to take pride in my work. I'm experimenting, trying things I've seen from YouTubers I admire. And I know how it might look from the outside: some ordinary Singapore boy trying to speak with a more international accent, doing things that seem out of character.

What is he trying to be?

I can hear the question even when nobody asks it.

Here's the thing I've realized: I spent my whole life trying to avoid cringe. And when I look back at all those years of careful navigation, of staying in my lane, of not trying too hard. I still cringe.

I cringe at my naivete. I cringe at what I thought was important. I cringe at the way I acted, the things I said, the choices I made.

So if I'm going to cringe at myself anyway, what exactly was I protecting?

Cringe, it turns out, is just growth viewed in reverse. It's the distance between who you were and who you've become. The only way to avoid it entirely is to stay exactly the same forever.

My dad went to be with the Lord some time ago. He lived a good life: comfortable, filled with family, with us. I think he was happy.

But I wonder sometimes. I wonder if there were things he wanted to do but didn't, because he was afraid of what people might think. Whether he felt like certain things weren't meant for him, but for others. Whether he worried about being perceived as cringe, or whatever word his generation would have used for it.

I don't know if he felt those things. I'll never know.

And I wonder: if he had been afraid of people's comments, did any of them even show up at the wake? Did they even know?

When you see the end of someone's time on earth, you realize how little these thoughts matter. The question of whether people thought you were cringe, whether you were "supposed" to do the things you wanted to do. It evaporates against the finality of a life actually lived.

Of course, it's easy to say it doesn't matter when you're reflecting on mortality. In the moment, these feelings have power. They're real. They can stop you.

But I've decided something.

When I publish videos of myself, documenting my life, emulating people I admire, it might not look like who others perceive me to be. It might invite that question: who does he think he is?

And that's okay.

If you must cringe, cringe and do it anyway.