When I was a child, my favorite summer activity was the two weeks I spent at Lazy J Ranch Camp, an eclectic summer retreat in the hills of Malibu. Lazy J had the traditional array of summer camp activities: archery, arts and crafts, hikes, and horseback riding. Each year, the session terminated with a series of competitions, and the capstone of this was the horseback riding contest. On the last day when the parents would come to pick up their children, there was an awards ceremony and trophies were distributed to the winners.

When I was about eleven years old, I decided I was tired of not winning a trophy. A sign-up sheet was passed around over lunch, and I considered its contents. I was invited, as was every other camper, to sign up for the horseback riding competition at the beginner, intermediate, or advanced level. At my age, having attended the camp for a few years, intermediate would surely be the right fit for me – but I knew I wasn’t the best of the intermediate riders. I scribbled my name under the “beginner” category and passed the sheet along.

A few days later, I mounted my horse with the assistance of a counselor. I kept my back straight, my heels down, and the reigns held in the right place. I walked when they told me to. I stopped when they told me to. I walked again. I steered the horse to turn left. I walked some more. I stopped. I dismounted.

I rolled my eyes.

At the awards ceremony, I got what I wanted: I received a trophy for best horseback riding at the beginner level. But I didn’t feel triumphant. I didn’t feel any sense of accomplishment. Everyone else at my level was a few years younger. Many of them had never been on a horse until that summer. What I felt, to my surprise, was shame. How could I undercut my own abilities like that?

Manufacturing Smallness

Brené Brown talks in her book Daring Greatly about how until her viral TED Talk, she had “manufactured smallness” in every element of her life. She was afraid to fail (and also, perhaps, of the vulnerability that comes with public success, should she achieve it) so she never tried anything that would stretch her capabilities.

For me, participating in Lazy J’s beginner level horseback riding competition was exactly that. I didn’t want to fail, and I didn’t want to have to work hard enough to succeed at something difficult. So instead I set myself up for success – which counterintuitively felt an awful lot like failure.

What, with my tiny, horse-shaped trophy, did I fail at? I failed at growth. I failed at grabbing an opportunity for development by the handles. I manufactured smallness: If I was going to succeed, it was going to be at something that wasn’t going to stretch my limits at all.

Risk Taking and Growth

A lot of us spend a great deal of time and energy trying to avoid discomfort because being in it feels, in a word, lousy. When we feel uncomfortable, every instinct in our brains and bodies tells us to run away, to take action, to stop the feeling.

But here’s the other thing about discomfort: It’s a perfect petri dish for personal growth. And taking safe, sane risks, is the best way to achieve this.

If you do the same thing today that you do every other day, you’re not growing. If you avoid conversations that might rock the boat, your relationships can’t flourish. This is not to say you should do anything unsafe – just uncomfortable.

If you’re sold on the value of this – or if you want to decide if you agree – here are some risks you can take that may help you grow as a person:

  • Try a new hobby, something you’ve never tried before.
  • Do something you already love, but at a higher difficulty level.
  • Share a creative product with another person.
  • Tell a secret to someone you trust.
  • Ask questions you don’t know the answer to.
  • Introduce yourself to a stranger.
  • Speak up when something offends or contradicts your values.
  • Work to understand yourself better by talking to a therapist.