I have a friend here in Portugal who is very interested in getting into infosec. He currently works at a quiosque here in Portugal that we really like (and sometimes work from), and he happened to see my “hacking is not a crime” sticker on my laptop so decided to start asking questions.
We chat about certifications, different avenues in infosec, how they overlap, how to find what you really like within a very wide field of study, etc. Sometimes in person, sometimes over Bluesky.
He said something to me this morning that made me realize I needed to write this down for other folks: he admitted that his fear of failing is holding him back. If he’s not perfect, he’s a failure as a person.
I ended up telling him a story that I didn’t think was that important, but after I typed it out, I realized it really is. (I promise, I’m not going to become a performance coach or some other bullshit. This just struck me and I wanted to write it down.)
Story Time
My sister and I both took blacksmithing and welding classes together, 20+ years ago, back when my skin looked great and my boobs were, well, where boobs are meant to be at that age. The blacksmithing classes were really fun (apart from the time I set myself on fire and barely noticed because it was summer in Arizona), but I really, really hated welding. Specifically MIG and TIG welding. Oxy-acetylene was fine. The MIG and TIG machines were inside this dark room (understandable, since it was in Arizona and really freaking hot). It was intimidating, but I’m pretty good at stuff, so sure.
If you’ve never welded before, they tell you to look at the “puddle” – the liquified metal you’re pushing around – and NOT the retina-scorching bright light that’s causing that metal to melt. Look at the puddle, watch the puddle, over and over and over they said that.
I just couldn’t see. All I could see was the light. We tried auto-darkening helmets, non-auto-darkening, lighter, darker, you name it. ALL I could see was the bright light that you’re very specifically NOT supposed to look at.
My first test weld, I welded the table, because I couldn’t even see that I wasn’t on the metal I was supposed to be welding. The guys in the class were laughing at me, and I felt so terrible. I knew I could be good at it somehow, but wtf I just couldn’t see what they saw. I couldn’t see the metal itself, so no, maybe I was just bad at this. Of all the things I’m good at, maybe this one just wasn’t for me. I couldn’t see the puddle, and I took that as a personal failure.
It was awful, and I made the decision that day that I’m terrible at welding, and therefore I hate welding.
Fast forward 20 years. I’m in my mid-forties, living in San Diego, and my sister runs a welding school in Yuma, Arizona. She’s a welder/artist, and I’m a computer dork. Not exactly the way we expected things to pan out when we were kids, but hey, whatever, it’s a living, and life is weird.
My sister’s welding school had a valentines day event that I decided to take Brady to. He had never done any blacksmithing or welding, so I thought it might be fun. Brady and I thrive when we’re challenged to solve problems together. It’s why we work so well together, in life and in our actual jobs.
The challenge was to create something that represents the moment you first fell in love with (or when you knew it was real, etc etc). Brady and I had made plans on what we wanted, but it was a timed event, so we realized 3/4 of the way through that we wouldn’t be able to make the thing we had designed within the time we had. It was a great idea, but we couldn’t complete it in time, so we had to pivot. That’s okay – we’re good at that!
We came up with a new idea, simpler than the original but we were running out of time. I wanted what we made to be perfect, because I wanted something we could both be proud of, but also because I wanted to impress my big sister.
So, new plan. We’ve only got an hour or so left at this point, and we came up with something really good. But it was going to require plasma cutting (fine), and… welding. Fuck. Not welding. I fucking hate welding. I’m going to absolutely blow this whole project and I’m going to embarrass my sister when everybody goes around the room and shows off their project and tells their story, and I have a hardened puddle of dogshit because I can’t weld.
My sister is a very, very good teacher. In general, but also specifically with me, and I don’t always handle failure gracefully. (Gifted child, etc.)
I was starting to get stressed out at this event that was supposed to be fun, because failure was looming and my final boss – welding – was one I knew would beat me. It did every single time, so why would today be different?
I started to get upset and flustered, and I re-explained to my sister that I can’t weld. I’m just not good at it, I can’t see the puddle! I CAN NOT DO IT.
She very calmly said to me “No, those guys were wrong. You just need more light.” She then plopped down a portable lamp on the welding table to sidelight what I was working on and… holy shit. I can weld. I CAN weld. And friends, I welded the ever living shit out of that piece.
I spent 20 years thinking I couldn’t do a thing because my teachers were shitty, when all I needed one small adjustment to make it possible. Just a bit of light. I thought I was a failure, that this was just one of those things I just wasn’t meant to be good at, when all I needed was a little more light.
This story is weird for me to tell because the analogy feels a bit too on the nose (“‘light’, snipe? really?”), but it’s genuinely true. I realized how important it is as I was re-telling it to my new young friend here in Portugal who is feeling a little overwhelmed and is imposing his own pressure for perfection.
People much smarter and more sophisticated than me have been making this argument for centuries, and no one (other than a few jerks on Github) will ever be a harsher critic of me than I will be – but you cannot let that stop you. Fear is such an easy demon to rationalize into a dark corner where you never think about it again. “I’m just not good at $x”. What if you are though? What if a different approach is all you need?
It’s so incredibly easy to fall prey to self-sabotage – to give up before you even started, because what if you’re bad at it? And the worst part is that you won’t always even know you’re doing it.
You know what? You probably will be bad at it the first few times. So what?
Our piece isn’t going to win any awards, but I’m damn proud of it. We worked together, we pivoted, we made something that means something to us, and I learned for the very first time that I do not suck at welding.
We were pretty crunched for time at that point. Whatever, I write code for a living. But I will cherish it until the day I die – and apparently I will tell this story to people who need a reminder that convincing yourself that you can’t do something is easy to do, and sometimes just a slightly different approach, a different perspective, and yes, some light (gag), can change everything.
We do this shit to ourselves all the time, and who knows what amazing shit we could have done if we hadn’t. Make a promise to yourself today that you’ll stop doing that – or at least try. Get out of your own way and just try the thing. And if you suck at it, so what? If you suck at it and like it, try a different approach. Make it a habit to get out of your own way.
It reminds me a bit of the book Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain by Betty Edwards. While conventional knowledge discounts the left/right brain arguments, her point was never to teach you how to draw, it was to teach you how to see – to prevent your brain from doing the overcorrections it normally does to help us perceive the world around us. It was life-changing for me.
If you’re ever in Yuma, Arizona, check out Shanen’s welding school. It’s pretty incredible. Or check out her TV show (which you probably can’t find because the network is bad at their jobs.) At the very least, check out her instagram – it’s amazing (and I’m saying this as someone who hates Instagram.) And if you want to know more about our move to Portugal, check out snipe.pt.
