There’s something I’ve been struggling with for a while now.

It’s pretty embarrassing. I’m not thrilled even letting it take up space in my brain, but sometimes problems just bubble up out of you, ya know? I don’t even know what to call it–I barely really know how to describe it–but I guess since I’ve already drawn attention to it, I’d say it was something like…

…I just can’t seem to catch up to myself.

A burst of winter air swept through the barracks. The last orange leaf fell from a nearby tree. 

I stumbled into my room and collapsed onto the cot, throwing myself face-first into the bedsheets. Someone my age doesn’t have any excuse to be depressed by something as mundane as ‘not being good enough’. When you get to be an adult, you’re either trying every second to be the type of person you want to be, or you’re finding excuses to be less than your best, right? Throwing a tantrum in your bedroom when no one else is around is just an excuse to feel sorry for yourself so you don’t have to focus on getting better, right? Oh well, at least no one was around to—

“What are you doing?” Rhiley’s voice came from the door. Accusingly.

…damn it all to hell.

I looked up from the sheets with one eye. “Pouting.”

“Oh,” she said. “So a pretty normal day for you.”

She stepped inside without being invited and sat down on a wooden stool, casting a glance out of the frost-covered window. “They’re making progress on the Door,” she said. “So pout while you can, I guess. Things are gonna’ get pretty busy around here…”

“Yeah, right,” I scoffed. “Like they’ll let either of us do anything.”

“I don’t think they’ll have a choice…” she muttered and looked around the room. “You know, this place is a lot worse since I left.”

“Oh my god,” I jerked up from the cot with a glare. “If you came here to complain about my room, go somewhere else. I’m busy complaining to myself.”

Rhiley wrinkled her nose. “Yikes, you’re in a bad mood. Are you hungry? Want some coffee?”

“No, Rhiley, I don’t want coffee. I just want…”

I let my voice trail off. My arms felt heavy, so I crossed them and turned away.

“Whatever,” I sighed.

Rhiley stared over expectantly. When I didn’t respond, she shrugged.

“Hmm. Okay then,” she said and stood. “See you later.” 

Then she left. Like an absolute barbarian, she turned and vanished left without even asking what was wrong.

When you’re angry at the universe—because you’re not self-aware enough to be angry at yourself—the last thing you want is someone drawing attention to how childish you’re being. That’s the thing about being inept: it’s kind of a bummer when people point it out, especially when you already know it and are trying to blame the universe instead.

A few seconds passed.

I scrunched up my nose.

Silence.

…I relented. “Alright, fine,” I said out loud. “Rhiley, will you please come listen to me complain about myself for a minute?”

She spun in from the door frame, just outside of view.

“Now was that so hard?”

I glared. “Yes.”

“Aww,” she cooed, walking in and patting my shoulder. “Is it hard having to ask when you want something instead of just hinting at it and hoping someone does what you want?”

“If you knew,” I groaned. “Then why didn’t you just humor me?”

“Because you’re not that kind of lukewarm person, Xeno Alistel, and I’m not going to let you pretend to be.” 

Then she took a seat on the stool. She dusted off the side of one thin brown boot, removed it, then the other, and crossed her legs. 

“So, what’s up?” she asked.

I sighed, paused, and stared up at the ceiling. Men like me—really adult men, and not kids pretending to be adults—don’t usually talk about our feelings. That’s why we’re not very good at it. A lot of us just don’t talk in general, which is admittedly pretty counterproductive towards being understood; which is what we want.

“Alright,” I said. “This is going to sound dumb. I know it’s a little weird, or whatever. But just hear me out, okay?”

“I am prepared to do nothing but hear you out, actually,” Rhiley said. “I have no agenda other than listening to what you say.”

“For some reason I believe you,” I mumbled. Then I took a deep breath and tried to organize my thoughts.

“…I have this idea in my head—like I’m running a race,” I began. “Like I’m out on an adventure. And ahead of me is this ghostly sort of form—the best possible version of myself: the one who acts like I want to act, who does the things I want to do. Who’s brave, and competent, and faces danger, and takes the right risks. Who says yes to the right things, and no to the things he knows is wrong. Who works hard when it’s time to, and relaxes the right way. Who doesn’t sabotage himself. Who says what he thinks and feels, and isn’t afraid if sometimes that bothers people–but who does it out of genuine care, not to piss people off or be bullheaded. Who leads, and smiles, and faces down troubles. It doesn’t matter exactly what he does—what matters is what he represents: he’s my ideal. My conception of the best version of myself: the me worth turning into. He’s ‘where I’d be if I was everything I could be’. As good as I could be. Does that make sense?”

Rhiley nodded a few times.

“I didn’t make him up arbitrarily,” I continued. “I took a really long, hard look at myself and thought about what type of me would be worth becoming: what type of person I wanted to be. I created a really clear vision of a me worth turning into–even if he makes mistakes, or fails, or messes up–that’s not the point. He isn’t someone perfect, he’s someone I’d be proud of being.”

I took a deep breath.

“And he’s ahead of me, right? In the race. But I’m catching up,” I said. “If I was as good as he is, if we were the same person, we’d be running in the same spot. Every single action I take either closes the gap or widens it, and most of the time I’m catching up. When I look back and see how close I am compared to where I used to be, it’s clear I’m catching up. But…”

I shut my eyes and relaxed on the cot.

“…but I’m so slow,” I confessed. “I’m so, so slow, Rhiley. I’m not getting better fast enough, and he’s already a lifetime ahead of me. The closer I get, the harder it is to get closer and the easier it is to slip through the cracks. Fall backward, lose ground: be worse. There’s so much I want to do, and be, and I’m just not and it’s so frustrating. I want to be a great Avatoan soldier. I want to help people. Protect people. I want Alan to notice how hard I’m trying, and I want to actually put in work good enough to be worth noticing. I want to be better at fighting, and not just because of this stupid sword, but because I worked hard to get there. I want to work hard. I want to be better: but when I look back at the end of the day at how I spent my time, what I did and how I was thinking—when I compare it to what he would have done, the gap widens by a mile. He’s so good. He doesn’t falter. He doesn’t make a single mistake, doesn’t have a single lapse in judgment–no moment of weakness. He makes the right choice every single time. Relentlessly. And me? I’m a joke. I can barely do half of it: some days I can’t do any of it, and then I slip and fall and get weeks behind. It compounds so, so quickly. Every mistake makes it that much easier to mess up again, and all I want to do is catch up but I’m failing at every turn. I just…”

I took a deep breath and let my head fall.

“I just want to be the best I can be, you know?”

A moment of silence settled in the room. The glass creaked in the winter frost. I opened my eyes and looked over at Rhiley: my personal best-friend-therapist. 

She looked me straight in the eye and spoke.

“That’s dumb.”

Rhiley said that. Completely straight faced, without batting an eyelash, she mocked my heartfelt confession.

Fun fact, when someone’s being vulnerable and honest about their feelings, and you deny whatever heart-felt attempt at expressing themselves they make, they have a tendency to bristle.

I bristled.

“What the hell, Rhiley?” I glared. “I put my heart on my sleeve for you and you tear it in half like that? After I asked you to listen and was honest and everything? Why would you do that?”

“Well, you want to be better, right?” she asked, leaning back in the chair. “Would the best you be sitting here feeling sorry for himself?”

I shot up off of the cot. “Woman, you have about five seconds to turn that acid-spit into something useful or I am never revealing my fragile, tender, child-like heart to you ever again, what is wrong with you? If it was easy, then I’d be doing it.”

“Well yeah, of course it’s not easy. You’re aiming at something divine.”

“Of course I am!” I spat. “That’s the only kind of thing worth aiming at, so–” I paused. “Wait, why did you say it like that?”

“You said the ghost you’re following isn’t just a better you, right?” she asked, shifting on the chair. “It’s the best you, right? Everything you could be? Not just better than you were yesterday, or better than you were last week, or last month, but the absolute best you could possibly be?”

I frowned. “Yes. I guess.”

She laughed a little, more to herself. “Well, no wonder you’re missing the mark. ‘Everything you could be’ is like, god-like.”

A bit of tension slipped away. My muscles relaxed, and I shifted on the cot. “What do you mean?”

“You’re just not the type of person to aim small is all,” she said. “That’s what makes you different, Xeno. You’re not afraid to aim at the unobtainable. Kind of fitting that your vision of the best version of yourself is something beyond what you’re capable of becoming. But maybe that’s what makes it worth chasing after.”

She pulled up one leg and set her chin on her knee.

“I get that you’re mad you’re not there,” she continued. “But at least you’re aiming pretty good. I can’t think of a better thing to aim at than ‘the best possible version of yourself’. But you don’t try to be divine because you think you can actually do it: you just know that it’s the best thing you can spend your life doing. Besides, if someone like you could get there, it probably wasn’t a high enough bar.”

I grit my teeth and curled a hand into a fist.

“…that’s the problem,” I mumbled. “I know it’s beyond me, but I still want it. I can see it, Rhiley. Every time I take the easy road, or slip up, I can see him right in front of me gaining distance. He’s right there, and I’m so far behind. I hate it. I can’t stand it.”

“Well, good,” Rhiley said. “I mean, if you were comfortable, you wouldn’t feel the need to push forward, right?”

Those words hit, and all else faded: the frustration, and emotion, and strain all vanished like a fog. Tranquility–calm, still, and silent–remained. 

I stared. 

Rhiley continued.

“I think you can probably be as good as you want to be, Xeno,” she said. “But you’re right: the thing is really how long it takes. You can make a little bit of progress at a time by giving into excuses and being mad at yourself and dragging it out, or you can just do it. Right now. Stop everything you know you shouldn’t be doing right now, and go do the thing you know you should. Whatever it is, do it right now. Because there’s really nothing else, right?”

With that, Rhiley stood from the chair. She stretched her arms above her head and walked to the door.

“I know it’s probably pretty frustrating,” she said. “So just do the best you can. Don’t give into any excuses, but be kind to yourself, too, okay?”

Then she left the room.

I took a deep breath and stared up at the ceiling. The stillness lingered, and I guess, in a weird sort of way, what she said was actually pretty comforting.

Right now, huh?

“And besides,” Rhiley’s head popped back into the room. “You’re pretty cute the way you are, and I like you a lot, dummy.”

Then she vanished. The patter of her footsteps echoed off down the hall.

I took a deep breath and sat up on the cot. With a bit of effort I swung my legs over the side of the bed, picked up my sword, and set off towards the training grounds. I took a moment to fully lace my boots.

Having an ideal—a set of values that you think are the best things worth striving for—that’s a useful tool. It helps you orient yourself: it’s a compass. You need it to know what step to take, because if you don’t have it, then any step you take is as good as any other. That’s bad. So, even if it hurts when you miss, even though it’s frustrating and aggravating, you need the compass. You have to know how far off you are, because that’s how you know where to move: where to grow. Where to push yourself to try harder. How to move forward. It’s something to guide you: to help you right now, in this moment, take a step forward. And if you do ever find yourself getting there, you need to reassess–because you probably didn’t set the bar high enough.

That thing at the top of the pyramid, the thing worth valuing, should be so good and so incredible that it goes beyond human. Beyond possible, beyond real—divine. 

Because that’s just the sort of thing worth aiming at.