💥 The courage to be "cringe"
Deconstructing cringe attack-tics, and taking pride in being a "try hard"
Every time I visit my parent’s home, I’m subject to what’s known in our family as: the “Visitation Tax.” This tax is enforced by a petite though straight-standing lady, with a graying-blonde bob, unsettling definition in senior biceps, and more than a few decades of executive leadership at Fortune 500s under her belt.
For as long as I can remember, this small but mighty woman has been setting strategic direction — for both The Family and The Firm.
None other than: my mom.
My mom’s entirely self-legislated tax-code is simple: mandatory attendance at her Tuesday morning Cardio Dance class during each visit home. The class is held at a large, suburban fitness center where eucalyptus towels are neatly stacked at stations and the on-site cafe serves 16oz “Booty Blast” Acai bowls.
It’s the land of toned moms, buff dads and extremely retired people. And at the strike of 9:30am on Tuesdays, a mostly female subset of patrons congregate in Group Fitness Room A, where I’m the youngest by 20 to 30 years and the darkest by 3 shades. There, they “Cardio Dance.”
Sometimes to Lil Jon. Occasionally, to Tyga. Perhaps to a beat or two, by Cardi B.
Blessedly, the songs these days nest lewd sexual references in otherwise innocuous food items — sushi rolls, eggplants and probably something else that I accidentally ate for lunch today. So while the senior women of this class are busy ~throwing that thang in a circle~, much of the meaning behind the lyrics are either misunderstood, or entirely overlooked.
Except for anyone in the room that doesn’t have an AARP membership.
For those few folks — mostly daughters of said patrons — we sheepishly dance along, in perfunctory pops, lukewarm locks and awkward, half-hearted drops.
There are many things we don’t do in life, or do only tastefully tempered, out of quiet embarrassment or fear.
But this isn’t merely the fear of being bad at something. No, no. This is something far worse. It’s the fear of being called out in the cruelest of ways:
You’re trying too hard, kid, to be something you’re just not.
When I pause to glance around each class though, no one looks worthy of such caustic critique. And while I admit, it’s curious to see one’s own mother ~getting crunk~ — these ladies don’t exude “try hard,” so much as they embody enthusiasm for the latest pop culture. That, and shockingly good hip mobility.
Which only leaves me to wonder:
When exactly did being a “try hard,” become something we don’t want to be?
The rise of cringe-spewing culture
There’s another term for try-hard, and it’s been getting thrown around a lot as of late. It’s called “being cringe” — and it’s a title you categorically don’t want.
For some, cringe looks like a Chad in Sigma Chi, with a multi-line tattoo written in Sanskrit on his calve. We silently wonder if he can name one rung of the caste system, or even point to India on a map.
For others, it’s GetFitWithKarlieXOXO on Instagram — dumping diet advice on your feed. And given we can’t actually see her credentials from afar, we dump some advice of our own: stop trying so hard to get followers and a GymShark sponsorship.
And for still others, it’s “Cardio Dance” — where affluent, retired and mostly white women dance hard, to what is, unexpectedly, hard rap.
Different people are triggered by different practices of self-expression. And some may be genuinely worthy of critique: actual crass cultural appropriation, or actual coercion for personal gain. But most of the time, that’s not what’s going on.
And for me, the more troubling trend is this:
We’ve become a culture obsessed with “cringe-calling” — where we target people that are trying by casually throwing around a word that’s intentionally cruel.
And as we quietly shame one another under our breathe, from afar — we become something all together diabolical.
We become the most powerful instigators of fear.
Breaking down the fear of being called cringe
I’m ashamed to say that I used to call a lot of things “cringe.” Rarely aloud, but often in my head. And while it took me too long to realize how awful that was, I’m glad that I eventually did.
At it’s core, my issue with “cringe-calling” is this: it tries to define who we are, and censor us from becoming anything that we’re presently not.
But by understanding more specifically how the cringe label hurts us, we can take steps to gracefully sidestep its efforts to cripple us from doing or becoming the things we want in life.
I’ve found that my fear of being called cringe, stems from it’s attacks on three fronts:
1. First, it criticizes your desire for self-change
When we do things that feel cringe, we’re exposing a delicate part of ourselves to the public: this is who I am… but there’s something else “off brand” that I suspect you’ll judge me for secretly wanting to become.
Someone cringe may very well want to be someone they’re not, and we jump to conclusions on why that might be. And that’s also what makes the fear of being called cringe so different from good’ol bread-and-butter insecurity. It’s not being ashamed of who we are. It’s being shamed for wanting to change it.
This trait of cringe-calling that’s judge and jury for what makes one “genuine” makes me especially keen to primal scream. Because the moment we call someone cringe for this reason, we miss the sheer irony:
The only person trying to be someone that they’re not is the self-appointed auditor — taking one sliver of someone else’s self-expression, and appraising its “cringeness” or authenticity.
With every “cringe” we sling, it boomerangs back to us: we’re the clueless and condescending. So what do you say we purge that practice?
Best to not be the blind butt of irony.
2. Second, it attempts to condemn your lack of self-awareness
Someone cast as “cringe” is so far off base, that they’re not even aware of how bad they are. And that means: it’s no longer just about judging the quality of what one is or does. It cuts one layer deeper: it’s also about judging their judgement to accurately assess the quality of their own work. And that’s what makes it so much more painful than someone merely saying: your writing sucks, or your singing sucks, or your presentation sucks.
When people call you cringe, it’s more like saying: you’re pitiful, because you don’t even realize how much you suck.
Nothing would be more gutting to my sense of self, than people thinking that I don’t have well calibrated senses at all. Sometimes, I picture people’s mental talk tracks when they read my writing, or the lengthy statuses I’ve started shamelessly posting on LinkedIn: I can’t believe she thought that statement was Earth-shattering. I can’t believe she thinks she’s profound!
So I’m less concerned about the work actually being unremarkable, and more afraid of people thinking that I THINK it’s remarkable and profound.
And because we fear being pegged narcissistic — unaware of our own un-remarkableness — we retreat. We avoid the nightmarish title that we don’t want.
And in doing so, too often: bail on pursuing the dream one that we do.
3. Third, it attacks your methods as “trying too hard.”
“Cringe” doesn’t even have the decency to strictly attack your capabilities or your output. It also attacks the nature of your efforts and your input. And sometimes, that’s where even more of our vulnerability lives.
Calling someone cringe isn’t just labeling them bad or clumsy at something— unable to meet the bar. It’s calling them overly earnest in their efforts to appear not bad.
It slanders their hard work as “forced.” It punishes for being too brazen and too brash. If you really must pursue, do it with some decency. Do it meekly, instead.
But if you read my previous blog post, that sounds like the worst combination of all: neither play, nor productivity.
Yea thanks, but I’ll pass.
Combatting cringe self-censorship with community
Collectively, those three attack-tics of “cringe” can cause some serious damage. Speaking for myself: the prospect of earning this title made me throttle my own initiative for too long.
When we fear being cringe, we relinquish our own agency. It censors us out of our own self-growth, and it only slows us down.
I wanted to try things that were “off brand” for me, but I was afraid to be seen trying. Awful, isn’t it?
Luckily, I had help. And it actually involved leaning into, not away from, the people around you. It leaned into being witnessed trying, but by the right supportive community.
Surrounding ourselves with a small set of wonderful people can go a long way to insulate us against our mind’s projection of other people’s commentary.
And for me, each of the three attacks within “cringeness” above is offset by three respective sets of people in my life:
The “unconditional allies” that affirm your capacity for self-awareness, no matter what. Because cringe-ness attacks your self-awareness on the quality of your work, it’s helpful to have someone in your corner that would never under-sell your self-awareness. These people will tell you when your work is a hot, steaming pile of trash, but they’ll never question your capacity for self-reflection on what quality looks like. In short: they’ll critically judge your work, but they won’t think you’re an unaware narcissistic jerk-face, even when the work you’re pushing needs a lot of work. For me, that person is my soul-sister, Kiran.
The “true fans” that celebrate the quality of your work and desire for self-change. These people genuinely believe in the quality of what you’re creating and wholeheartedly support the fluidity of your identity: they encourage the experimentation of “being” something new. For every one of their cheers, I can withstand 10,000 jeers. For me, this set includes: my parents (but they don’t really count) and two of my wonderful friends — Tre and Kathy — that are consistently my first commenters, likers, and re-sharers.
The “creative comrades” that understand and actively participate in cringe risk-taking. It’s hard to feel cringe if you feel part of a cohort. (Say: surrounded by 50 other shameless 65+ year olds twerking to Get Low?). Over the past 10 years, I’ve made a few close friends that are also early in their pursuits, and we discuss our efforts boldly bumbling along as “try hards” together. My friend Darbe is building her own vintage clothing boutique and fashion line and A’niche is producing music as an Indian-American rapper.
Conclusion
If you walk away with anything, hopefully it’s this: doing cringey-things isn’t the stuff of nightmares. Rather: it’s the starting point for people venturing to the cusp of their comfort zones — precisely where the pursuit of dreams begins.
I’d even go so far as to say this:
If you’re not doing something that feels at least a little cringe, you may not be leaning far enough into the discomfort of whatever you want most.
And should you earn the title of “cringe,” know that it’s not indelible branding. It’s more like, a right of passage for anyone working to scale their credibility. And there’s really no escaping that step of the process.
That’s the sausage making, baby.
Once you start, you’ll only feel less cringe the more you keep up with consistency. The community of goodwill, will only grow around you, and continue to cushion you against the fear of being cringe.
And the more you put yourself out there, the more you’ll notice something interesting. Through all of my cringey pursuits the past 5 years— be it YouTube videos, or blogging, or posting “self help” on LinkedIn — I only increasingly feel something beautiful.
That thing we’re so afraid of — being “cringey” — when we put ourselves on full display?
Turns out, after a few rounds, you realize this:
It feels shockingly similar to bravery.
If you found something here that speaks to you, leave a comment :)
Hi friends! Please comment, or restack. Your support is greatly appreciated, and indeed helps this writer feed her soul 💛
Such a beautifully written, and timely, piece. The reminder I needed to keep leaning into that cringey feeling!