I wasn’t ready for the question.
It fell into the dinner conversation like a dropped plate. One second we were talking about the weather, our misbehaving Labradoodle, and my cousin’s confusing new tattoo, and then Aunt Karen—always Aunt Karen—tilted her head, pointed her fork directly at me, and asked: “So… what are you good at?”
And then came the awkward pause.
No one made eye contact. Someone coughed. The fridge hummed louder, as if it, too, was uncomfortable. My face felt hot and my breathing quickened. My napkin fell to the floor and I considered joining it.
But I was still there. Still breathing. Still sitting in the strange quiet that always follows that question.
What are you good at?
The words are simple enough. Just five syllables. But somehow, they carry the weight of a piano falling from a sixth story.
It sounds like a casual question. Simple, like a Barista’s “Would you like room for cream?” But this question requires more. The spotlight swings your way and everyone is suddenly quiet. What should I say? Am I allowed to answer this honestly? Am I even supposed to know?
Wait…shouldn’t someone else answer this?
Here’s the thing: I want to be good at something. I want a superpower. Something that sounds admirable. Something that makes people nod thoughtfully, maybe even a little impressed. I want my truthful answer to be confident but not arrogant, authentic but not cheesy.
But, if this truth is not settled in me, how can I be expected to answer this question on the spot?
Because here’s the other thing: it wasn’t just the silence around the table that unsettled me. It was the other silence too—the one inside me. The awkward pause between who I’ve been and who I’m becoming. That liminal, shapeless space where the old story no longer fits, and the new one hasn’t taken form.
Nobody talks about that part.
That strange middle. The in-between. The moment after something ends but before something else begins. We skip past it. We rush to answers. We crave definition. But life doesn’t always offer clarity on demand. Sometimes it gives you a blank page and waits to see what you’ll write.
I glanced around. My mom was giving me her wide, slightly panicked smile. My dad kept eating. And me? I didn’t know what to say.
I wanted to say I was still unfolding. That maybe what I’m good at isn’t flashy or obvious yet. That maybe the pause isn’t a failure—it’s just a part of the process. Maybe it’s not a blank space to escape, but a sacred one to inhabit.
But I couldn’t say any of that. Eight difficult seconds after the question was asked, I gave the easy, and honest, answer.
“I don’t know.”
And I reconsidered joining the napkin on the floor.
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