The One Having the Most Fun
Your mind lies to you.
I’ve been hearing that everywhere lately.
Podcasts. Articles. Conversations.
It’s one of those phrases people say like it’s obvious. And I guess I thought I understood it.
Until I found myself standing in my bedroom… holding a paintbrush… completely frozen.
I decided to paint a mural. No plan. No experience. Just a desire to create. It had been a while since I let myself do that.
I saw something on Instagram that stuck with me. Soft gradients. Colors melting into each other. The artist mixed two colors with white to create all these in-between shades.
I had never done that before. Which made it equal parts intriguing and intimidating.
I remember standing in the paint aisle for what felt like forever. Holding swatches like they might tell me if I was making the “right” choice. Pulling way too many. Purples. Pinks. More purples. Just in case.
Overthinking… everything.
I finally landed on two colors and a can of white.
Back home, I mixed six shades and lined them up on the floor. Put on my favorite playlist. Started singing along.
Loud.
Like no one was listening.
Like I used to.
Mr. Blue Sky came on and I went full Groot:
Sun is shinin’ in the sky
There ain’t a cloud in sight
It’s stopped rainin’…
For a minute, it felt light. Easy. Like I had already figured it out. And then…
Sckreeeech.
Everything stopped.
I just stood there. Brush in hand. Wall in front of me.
And then the voice.
This is going to look stupid.
You don’t know what you’re doing.
You’re not creative.
You suck.
You’re not good at anything.
It came in fast. Not new. Just louder. Familiar in a way that made my chest tighten. Like I needed permission to even try.
And for a second, I almost walked away.
I could feel it building. The frustration, the doubt, that tightness in my chest.
Tears started to well up before I even realized what was happening. And then they were just… there. Streaming down my cheeks over a blank wall I hadn’t even touched yet.
All of that…before the first brushstroke.
Then another song flipped on. The Thompson Twins belted out
I actually laughed. The timing was almost too perfect. Like - oh. Right.
Lies. Not truth. Not fact. Just… uninvited noise.
I stood there a second longer and thought: I can paint over it.
That was it. Not some big, inspiring breakthrough. Just, I can paint over it.
So I wiped away the tears, turned the music up a little louder and started. The first strokes felt awkward. The colors didn’t blend the way I expected. I kept stepping back, tilting my head, trying to decide if it was “working.” But something had shifted. I wasn’t trying to get it right anymore. I was just… painting.
A few days later, I was on a pickleball court. Different wall. Same voice.
I missed a serve. Nothing dramatic. Just missed it. And there it was again. Only this time, it went big.
You’re fat.
You’re ugly.
No one will like you.
You’re going to be alone.
You suck.
I actually stopped. Wait, what? All of that from a missed serve? It was so over the top it made me laugh.
And then I remembered something a coach friend shared with me from the surf world:
The best surfer is the one having the most fun.
So I tried that. Not as a strategy. Just as an experiment. What if I didn’t need to be good? What if I just played? I started laughing more.
At myself.
At the serves that looked more like line drives.
At how quickly my brain went from “missed shot” to full-blown life collapse.
And somewhere in there, I loosened my grip.
I’ve been thinking about those two moments a lot. Standing in front of that wall. Standing on that court. Same voice. Different settings. Same urgency. Same certainty.
And then… something else.
Quieter.
It doesn’t rush. It doesn’t pile on. It doesn’t try to convince me of anything. It just lets me see what’s actually there.
The color on the wall.
The ball in the court.
Nothing more. Nothing added.
I’m starting to recognize the difference. Not perfectly. But enough to pause. Enough to ask, is that actually true? Not to argue with it. Just to slow it down.
I still hear that louder voice. Probably will for a while. But I hear something else now, too. Something that doesn’t tighten everything up. Something that lets me pick up the brush anyway. Or laugh at a bad serve. Or just… keep going.
Turns out, the voice in my head isn’t always the truth.
And the version of me I’m starting to trust?
She’s the one having the most fun.
