I hate the word “potential.”

Teachers, adults, mentors, and peers have told me, “You have such potential!” for as long as I can remember. As a child, I proudly wore it as if it were another gold metallic sticker the teachers pasted to our chests on days when we were “really good.” 

Exceptional. That’s another one. It often goes hand-in-hand with “potential.”

At five or six, you don’t know the meaning of these words, only that the adults beam when they say it, with earnest tones, signaling it as something of high value. 

By the end of middle school, I began to understand that they meant I would do “big things”…big nondescript, unspecified, unfocused big things…but big things, nonetheless.

The beginning of senior year came, and I felt I had failed to reach this so-called potential heaped upon me. Or maybe inside of me? I wasn’t sure; I only knew that I thought I was disappointing others by not doing more by 17. Then, my early acceptance letter came from Washington and Lee University, prestigious and competitive enough to signify my continued potential. Maybe W&L would be the place that held the key to unlock it. Perhaps those hallowed, if flawed, halls would sprinkle the magic dust on me so I would rise to become more than my measly 17 years had produced thus far.

Admittedly, I did not make the most of college. I had fun, but not too much. I earned good enough grades and learned an adequate amount. I didn’t push myself or join the clubs and organizations, barely making it as a sorority sister. I wrote the thesis my thesis advisor wanted, not the one that filled my belly with desire, interviewing the right people and making the case he wanted, not I. Maybe by following the desires of others, that potential would produce more, or at least something sufficient.

Seminary became another opportunity that could have borne better fruit had I applied myself better. I wish I had studied harder, made contacts, and been more ambitious. Great men and women taught me, but I endeared myself to none of them. If you asked them now if they enjoyed having me in class, they would say, “Who?”—lost potential yet again.

I have yet to climb the traditional ranks in my vocation. The bishop’s miter or cathedral holds little appeal, and I haven’t penned America’s great novel on the intersection of faith and modern culture. My name emblazons small things and garners little recognition outside of my hometown.

Potential is the world of lost things that never were meant to be. Potential is a promise made by others for a future that never was mine. Potential without focus is a swirl of chaos that looks exciting and whimsical to others. They see the jack of all trades who could do anything relatively well, while I see the master of none who can’t seem to focus on any one task…actually, any two tasks because I can’t focus on just one.

Potential takes the shape of the myriad of ideas constantly swirling inside my brain that never stops ticking. Some of those ideas I give to others because they show up in my brain but find no application in my life. Some become notes on a page or in my phone, then disappear in favor of newer, shinier thoughts. Some flash for mere seconds before the call of duty pulls me in an obliged direction rather than the crazy rabbit trail of another “lost potential.” Most days, the whirring overwhelms me until my hyper-focus takes the reins, or I find a pointless, potential-squandering activity like doom-scrolling Instagram.

Potential is a thousand lost dreams other people had for me that only left me feeling inadequate and unfocused, a failure lost in the soup of careers and vocations others threw into my pot. They bump up against me, but I cannot take hold for more than a brief moment because they don’t belong to me.

My passions don’t make me much money, so those whirling dervish ideas reluctantly move in the direction of whatever project will pay to support the three most important things in my life. My face is emblazoned on three remarkable human beings to whom I do not speak the word “potential.” We celebrate their successes and failures, and I tell them to do what makes their heart happy. I do coax them and encourage them to push their gifts to see how they might develop, but the word “potential” is forbidden. 

These three, who wear so much of my face but have made it their own, are marvels as they are now. I try not to overthink where they will go or what they will do but force myself to see what they accomplish and learn today, fighting the temptation of potential and insisting on looking at the realized. I don’t want them lost in my same soup, but to see them standing in the kitchen, controlling what goes in the pot and how each ingredient will be used, tasting as they go along, learning what to add and what to remove. The potential is simply what is in their minds and nothing more.