The Importance of Being Bad

What Moving to Spain Taught Me and My Ego

In the cab at Barcelona’s Plaza Ingles, the driver screamed. Behind us, cars blasted their horns, sped around the congested circle of the city’s center. I tried to repeat the address of my destination, voice quivering, but my mouth couldn’t stretch around the soft curves of Catalan. The driver flung his hands and motioned get out. No, I said. Tears fell, hot, fast, embarrassing. Please, I begged in panicked English. 

Photo by Isaac Quesada on Unsplash

What had I done? Given up a good life, my life—a rent-controlled apartment one block from the beach, closer-than-family friends, my first position teaching high school English, its decent salary—to move to a foreign country where I had no job or support. Even the language was a stranger in my mouth. 

As the cab driver kept yelling, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my crumbled, sweaty boarding pass. With shaky hands, I wrote the address of where I needed to go. 

As the car sped off, my new city blurred outside the window. The thought came, clear and mean as a January morning: I’ve completely ruined my life. 

Why did I give up everything I had worked so hard for? 

The truth is: I was born hungry; I crave challenge the way others crave chocolate. In the quiet moments of grocery checkout lines and commercial breaks, an itch dares me to leap. Asks, What other adventure is out there? What new stories will you write? 

My need to be uncomfortable—to keep pushing myself—is both a blessing and a curse. In a dizzying state of perpetual motion, I work doggedly, dogmatically. Sink my teeth into the promotion I want, the book I’m writing, the business I’m building, like a chew toy. The more I gnaw, the better it tastes. The more uncomfortable I am, the more alive I feel. 

Before I moved to Barcelona, I had taught high school on the border of Mexico. Every day, my students crossed over, sat in my classroom and fought to learn—even though most didn’t speak English, even though I didn’t speak Spanish. I decided to put myself in a situation that would force me to learn. I needed to unbrick the wall of silence between me and my students. 

All of my life, words have been something I’m good at. I'm a better, braver person on the page. But in Spain, without them, without knowing how to communicate, the world felt bend-my-bones lonely. I felt terribly insignificant, incredibly small. 

Somewhere, we are taught that being a beginner means being bad—fussing and fumbling over a new skill—is something to be ashamed of. It starts as early as preschool, when a child looks up from their fingerpaint to see a more precise and put-together portrait than theirs. In that moment, they subscribe to the story. Tell themselves, I’m not good, causing the striving, the discovery, the magic, to end.

My stomach still sinks whenever I read a line I wish I’d written. When I decide a writer is better than me, the thought quickly transforms from I’m bad AT to I AM bad. The lack of skill and shame sits in my bones and convinces me I’m lesser—less worthy of time, support, attention, and even love. 

Comparison haunts so many of us. We measure our worth against others, get spooked by our judgment and grief. Causing many to quit, before they ever truly start. 

Here’s a secret: there is no good or bad art. There is only art living in different stages and interpretations. Different images, words, and music that live inside us all—that’s the best part. Bad is a lie—a ghost story we choose to believe.  There is no lesser art or people, only less practiced. 

Because I was broke, I learned Spanish with index cards, late nights, and by making an ass of myself. A close friend and flatmate, also an American, took private lessons. When she spoke Spanish at home, congregated verbs and hard-to-reach vocabulary dripped from her tongue like Sangria.

I found creative ways to improve. The principal of the school I taught at would meet with me in the basement before school. For thirty minutes, in English, she would tell me about the annoying quirks of her husband, how she hated broccoli, and the baby shower she attended. When the time was up, I corrected her mistakes. Then, we’d switch.

Like a new favorite dress, I slipped into Spanish whenever I could. At the bar, I drank two-euro vino tinto, screamed broken Spanish over the music. We can speak English, my new friends would say, embarrassed for me and my many mistakes. My friend with superior skills stayed silent, stayed scared. No gracias, I’d smile. Knowing if you don't practice—choose action over ego—nothing will change. 

In 2020, my first poetry collection, Boat Burned, came out. I didn’t just write it, I let it consume me. Before submitting, I read most of the books in the publisher’s catalog. After it was accepted, I rewrote 60% of it. It took many long years and endless pity parties—working hard without a degree or connections—to feel like I finally graduated from bad. 

After finishing my second poetry collection, the voice was back. Louder now. What’s next? always on her breath. 

Afraid to answer, I had an idea I couldn’t put down, but it was in—gulp—fiction, where I am a basement beginner. If poetry lives in the heart, then fiction in the head. I had spent almost a decade twirling around with the scarves of language, and now my brain had to do long division. Plot divided by character development equals every day I want to quit. Equals writing this novel was, is, and will continue to be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. 

On my best days, writing is both exhilarating and exhausting. Imagine going to a job, punching in for three years, and never receiving a paycheck. You have to love writing that much—to show up, not get paid, possibly not even read, and still wake up and say, More. To spend your life chasing what might never love you back.

I lived in Barcelona for one year. By the end, many mistook me for a local. My friends and I danced late into the night, teetered home, heels in hand, at sunrise, laughing, joking, and living comfortably in Spanish. None of it felt real, or mine, until I was stopped by two tourists from London—they were lost. Directions rolled off my tongue, smooth as olive oil—every accent and tense correct. 

This past year, I wrote over 200,000 words. Maybe 10% were worth keeping. My ego is black and blue after criticizing myself for all I’m still incapable of. On bad days, I’m right back in that taxi cab, shaking, crying, repeating, I’ve ruined my life. 

But then I remember the boarding pass; how even when it seemed impossible, I found a way to get where I wanted. 

Reaching the next step means building a bridge, brick-by-brick, mistake-by-mistake. Because on the other side of bad is the you you are destined to become. But to get there, you have to keep showing up. You must stomach, sustain, and survive the journey—even when there are delays and detours, especially when you feel like everyone is better. Being bad is such a beautiful place to begin. 

What do you hope to be “bad” at in the new year? Share in the comments—I want to cheer you on :)