Potential. It’s a word that haunts my most private thoughts and causes me immense personal anguish. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been told that I had it. For some people, hearing that they have potential would probably be reassuring. Whenever I hear it, though, it sounds like a disease. To know that others are thinking about how good you CAN be, feels an awful lot like they’re condemning you for not having achieved that success already. When I look at the coworkers surrounding me during my 8-hour stints in that soul crushing penitentiary known as work, I can’t help but think, “Am I truly the same as these people?”





Friends and family who know me well assure me that I’m better than my station in life, and they’re quick to point out that I have something my coworkers don’t: potential. Apparently, it’s been growing inside me for decades, but my insurance can’t cover it’s removal. I want this potential excised. I want it removed from my body. Even now, as I think about it, my chest tightens. Maybe that’s where it is. In my chest. The only way to put this potential behind me, they say, is to fully realize it. Whatever that means.



