👋🏽 Hi, I'm New Here: Why Starting Over Never Gets Easier (and Why It's Worth It)

Why is it so hard to be at the beginning of something?

Maybe that’s why so many of us stay in jobs longer than we should. Or remain in routines, habits, or relationships that no longer feel right. The familiar—even when it’s uncomfortable—can feel easier than the vulnerability of starting over.

Being new is awkward. Exposing. Humbling.

And I should know. I’ve been new many, many times.

Every time I walk into a new room—whether it’s a class, a professional space, or a community—I have the same instinct: sit in the back. Stay quiet. Hide a little so no one asks what I’m doing there.

Because if they do, I might have to explain all the other times I’ve started something new.

There’s something comforting about staying in one place long enough to become the expert. The person people come to for answers. The one who knows how things work.

When I briefly worked in tech, I learned a term they used often: SME, pronounced “smee.” It stands for Subject Matter Expert.

I never became an SME in tech—I realized quickly that the work wasn’t for me. But later, in real estate, I did.

I spent more than six years in that profession. I became the person people called when they needed advice, guidance, or resources. I genuinely enjoyed that role. It felt good to be someone others could count on.

But even as a real estate “SME,” something inside me kept whispering that I wasn’t fully aligned with what I was doing.

So eventually, I did what I seem to do again and again in my life.

I jumped ship.

I stepped away from the familiar and walked straight back into the unknown.

Which means… here I am again.

At the beginning.

Now, I’ve been here before, and one thing I know for sure is this: the discomfort of being new never fully goes away. But I’ve learned that I can survive it.

I won’t die from being the least experienced person in the room.

Recently, I had another reminder of what it feels like to be a beginner.

A few weekends ago, I went skiing with my family. It was only the second time I had ever been on skis, so I spent the entire day on the bunny slopes.

As I slid down the hill at what felt like lightning speed—doing my best to stay upright—I noticed something funny.

Toddlers.

Lots of them.

Tiny little snow warriors confidently cruising down the same slope… sometimes even passing me.

And there I was, a grown adult trying to remember which way to lean and how to stop without falling over.

But the surprising thing was that I didn’t feel embarrassed.

I didn’t feel discouraged.

Instead, I felt something else entirely: the thrill of doing something new.

It reminded me that being a beginner doesn’t always have to feel intimidating. Sometimes we’re so captivated by what we’re learning that it doesn’t even matter that we don’t fully know what we’re doing yet.

And maybe that’s part of the magic.

What I’ve also learned about being new is this: the fastest way to become less new is to surround yourself with two kinds of people—those who are learning alongside you and those who have already walked the path.

In other words, you need both newbies and SMEs in your life.

But here’s the hard part.

Walking into a room full of experts can be terrifying.

More than once I’ve listened to someone talk about what they’re building or creating and felt a wave of intimidation wash over me. The kind that makes you want to quietly slip out of the room before anyone notices.

As a mother, I’m used to being the expert. At home, I’m the one with answers. The one solving problems. The one everyone turns to.

But in these new spaces—these rooms where I’m stretching myself—I’m the beginner again.

I’m the one asking questions.

I’m the one learning.

And if I’m honest, that can be a blow to the ego.

Watching people do the very things you hope to learn can make it feel like you’ll never get there. Like everyone else is miles ahead.

But the truth is this: being bad at something is often the first step toward becoming good at it.

No one loves that part. It’s uncomfortable. Humbling. Sometimes even discouraging.

But it’s also how growth works.

What makes the process easier—what makes it survivable—is finding the right kind of room.

A room filled with people who are learning.

A room filled with people who remember what it felt like to be new.

A room where experts are generous with what they know.

A room where encouragement is louder than comparison.

The right room doesn’t make you feel small.

It makes you feel possible.

And if you’re standing at the beginning of something right now—feeling awkward, unsure, or intimidated—I hope you remember this:

Everyone you admire was once the person sitting quietly in the back of the room.

New.

Learning.

Wondering if they belonged there.

And maybe the bravest thing we can do is stay in the room anyway.

So if you’re at the beginning of something right now, take heart.

Stay curious. Stay open. And keep going—you might just surprise yourself with what you’re capable of learning next.