Why Our Attempts to Impress Often Miss the Mark

The other day, I watched a small moment unfold that took me back decades in an instant. A child started to step into the street when his mom quickly grabbed his hand, pulling him back to safety. I was driving slowly enough that there was no real danger, but something about the scene - the child's eagerness, the mother's protective instinct, the brief moment of "what if" - stirred up a memory I hadn't thought about in years.

I was probably around eight when my mom and I were downtown in my childhood town. We needed to cross the street to get to our car, and instead of walking to the crosswalk, we were cutting across mid-block. I was at that age where I was old enough that my mom didn't need to hold my hand, but not quite old enough to calculate the relationship between my running speed and an approaching car's momentum.

What I did know was that I was fast - running was the one athletic ability I actually possessed, the skill that got me picked early for something instead of standing there hoping not to be chosen last. And in that moment, as we were preparing to cross, I saw an opportunity to show off.

I took off running.

The honking horn and squealing tires that followed are sounds I can still hear clearly today. I wasn't hurt - the driver managed to stop in time - but there were three of us who were shaken for the rest of the day. The driver, clearly rattled. My mom, who was alarmed and trying to understand what I'd been thinking. And me, suddenly aware that my attempt to impress had nearly ended in disaster.

Mom didn't yell at me. She could have - probably should have - but she didn't. Instead, she asked what I was thinking, and when I couldn't find words to explain, she just said she had been scared. When we got home, I disappeared into my bedroom closet, hiding partly from fear of what might happen when my dad got home, but mostly because I felt foolish.

Eventually, Mom found me. "I was just scared," she said again, simply. No lecture about looking both ways, no dramatic warnings about what could have happened. Just acknowledgment of her fear and, somehow, space for mine.

My dad never said a word about it to me. I don't know if Mom told him - though I suspect she did - but either way, he had the wisdom to let her handling of it stand. No additional consequences, no rehashing of my poor judgment.

It was, I realize now, perfect parenting from both of them. Their approach allowed me to learn from my mistake in a way that actually worked - without shame, without needing to prove I'd learned my lesson, just honest acknowledgment of what had happened.

The Drain of Being Someone Else

But there's another lesson in this story that I didn't even consider until this memory came back the other day.

That moment of taking off running wasn't really about crossing the street faster - it was about showing off, wanting to be seen as something more. I wanted to impress my mom, to demonstrate something that would garner her attention and maybe her respect. The need to be seen as fast, as capable, as impressive somehow became more important than just being present and careful about what we were actually doing - you know, safely crossing a street.

What strikes me now is the irony that while I wanted to show myself in a way that would impress, instead, I felt foolish and had risked real danger. How differently might I have behaved had I realized that just being myself was all that mattered.

How often do we still do this as adults? Not necessarily running into traffic, but running toward things that aren't really in our best interest because we're focused on the impression we want to make rather than what's actually wise for us.

We commit to things that drain us because we want to appear capable. We take on that extra project when we're already stretched thin, or say yes to social events we don't actually want to attend because we're worried about how our choices might be received.

And just like my eight-year-old self stepping into that street, we're so focused on managing how we want to be seen that we don't fully consider what we might be stepping into - or the impact on everyone around us. When our mental energy is tied up in "How do I want to be seen?" we lose the bandwidth to focus on "What's actually happening here and how do I respond authentically?"

When our mental energy is tied up in 'How do I want to be seen?' we lose the bandwidth to focus on 'What's actually happening here and how do I respond authentically?'

The impression management becomes the priority, and genuine connection - the very thing we're often trying to achieve - gets lost in the process.

Instead of responding to what's actually in front of us, we're responding to what we think others want to see from us - which is often just our assumption anyway. But here's what I find myself wondering: What if we all spent more time being genuine and less time concerning ourselves about the judgments of others? It sure would be a lot easier. And maybe a lot kinder, too.

When we're not using so much mental energy to manage impressions, we have more bandwidth available for actual kindness, for real attention to each other, for responding to what people actually need rather than what we think will make us look good.

And what if we also stopped unconsciously expecting so much performance from others? What if we didn't need our colleagues to always have the perfect answer, or our friends to always be "on," or our family members to constantly prove their competence or care?

That child I saw the other day, reaching for the street before his mom pulled him back - he wasn't trying to impress anyone. He was just being a curious kid, moving toward what interested him. His mom wasn't performing perfect parenting; she was just responding to what was actually happening in that moment.

Maybe there's wisdom in that simplicity. Maybe the connections we're really seeking happen when we stop trying so hard to be impressive and start paying attention to what's actually in front of us.

What would change if you trusted that just being yourself - without the performance - is not only what matters most, but what others are actually hoping for too?

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