The Things I Pretend I’m Good At (But Absolutely Am Not)

There are plenty of things in life I genuinely try hard at, but if we’re being honest—and we always are here—there are also things I confidently pretend I’m good at even though the evidence says otherwise. This post isn’t about perfection or improvement or becoming “the best version” of myself. It’s about the hilarious, slightly embarrassing, fully human truth that sometimes we fake competence because it’s easier than admitting we have no idea what we’re doing. And if any of these sound like you, then congratulations: you’re absolutely putting up with Erin today.

Let’s begin with one of my strongest pretend talents: organization. If you judged me solely based on the pretty planners I buy, the labeled baskets I arrange, or the Pinterest boards titled “My Organized Life,” you might assume I have my entire world in perfect alphabetical order. The truth? Those planners are filled out for about eight days and then abandoned like lost civilizations. My labeled baskets are mostly mislabeled because at some point I got tired and started tossing things into whatever bin was closest. And the Pinterest boards? Aspirations, not reality. I love the fantasy of being an organized person far more than doing the actual organizing, so I’ve become incredibly skilled at looking like I have it together while living in a system that could collapse at any moment.

Another thing I pretend I’m good at is “not overthinking things.” I will say, out loud, with full confidence, that I’m taking things in stride. Meanwhile, inside my head, I am hosting a full-scale courtroom drama starring my decisions, my worries, and three different disasters that haven’t even happened. I tell myself I’m going to “just go with the flow,” but the flow and I have never actually met. I plan conversations that will never occur. I rehearse outcomes no one asked for. If overthinking were an Olympic sport, I would not only be good at it—I’d be undefeated. But of course, when someone asks how I’m doing, I smile sweetly and say, “Oh, I’m good. I’m not stressing it.” And that, my friends, is what we call a performance.

Let’s move on to cooking, which I pretend to be naturally gifted at despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Every time I step into the kitchen, there is a moment where I fully believe I am about to create something delicious. I picture myself confidently chopping ingredients, stirring sauces, and pulling perfectly cooked dishes out of the oven. But somewhere between the confidence and the execution, something tragic happens. A timer gets ignored. A spice gets overused. Something burns. And I, standing there with smoke in my hair, will say, “Well, that’s interesting,” as if I meant for my dinner to look like it came out of a survival show. Yet I continue to present myself as someone who “loves to cook.” Clearly, I love the idea of cooking—not the part where it needs to be edible.

I also pretend I’m good at handling unexpected changes with grace. In reality, I am one minor inconvenience away from needing a 10-minute moment of silence to recover emotionally. Does the grocery store not have the brand of coffee I buy? That’s a 12-step grief cycle. Did my schedule shift by 15 minutes? I need to reorganize my entire life. When plans change suddenly, some people pivot beautifully. They adapt. They smile. They embrace the spontaneity. I simply freeze like an overheated laptop and then reboot at a painfully slow speed. And yet if someone asks me if I handle surprises well, I will absolutely lie and say yes. It’s not intentional dishonesty—it’s more like an optimistic delusion. I believe in my future ability to be chill, even though past evidence strongly suggests otherwise.

Another skill I pretend I possess is the art of minimalism. I love the aesthetic of clean spaces, simple wardrobes, and homes uncluttered by unnecessary things. I will proudly announce, “I’m being minimalist now,” right before I buy something else that I absolutely do not need but can justify in under five seconds. Minimalists walk through their home with ease and intention. I walk through mine bumping into things I swear I meant to donate six months ago. But somewhere deep down, I still cling to the belief that I could be a minimalist if I really wanted to. I just… never seem to want to hard enough.

Let’s talk about mornings, because this is another area where I pretend to excel. I love the concept of being a morning person. I picture myself waking up gracefully, stretching, sipping coffee in silence, journaling, and doing something productive before the rest of the world is even awake. In reality, mornings are a negotiation between me and my alarm clock, and the alarm clock usually wins. My version of a “productive morning routine” is not losing my phone in the blankets and making it to the coffee machine without tripping. Yet I will still tell people, “I’m trying to become a morning person,” as if that transformation is just one early bedtime away.

I also pretend I’m good at being low-maintenance. I say things like, “I’m so easygoing,” while I carefully adjust multiple pillows, carry three different beverages everywhere I go, and require emotional support from a blanket. I want to be the kind of person who needs nothing, asks for nothing, and rolls with whatever comes. But deep down, I know I’m a high-maintenance soul wrapped in low-maintenance claims, hoping no one notices that it takes me 30 minutes to get comfortable in a chair.

Let’s not forget technology. Whenever something tech-related stops working, I immediately claim, “I know what to do,” while clicking random buttons with reckless confidence. I pretend I can troubleshoot anything—a printer, a phone, a website that refuses to cooperate. But if my solution doesn’t work within three minutes, I’m ready to declare the entire system dead. I’m not tech-savvy; I’m tech-hopeful. And there’s a difference.

Perhaps my favorite pretend talent is “not taking things personally.” I always say I’m good at letting comments roll off my back. But if someone says something even slightly confusing, I will analyze it for days like it’s a cryptic message from an ancient civilization. Someone could say, “Oh, interesting choice,” about my outfit, and I will replay it forever, questioning everything from the color to the stitching. But I’ll still tell people, “Oh, I don’t take things personally.” It’s cute that I think that.

Then there’s the classic: pretending I’m good at resting. I always insist I’m going to take a break, slow down, give myself grace, and allow myself to breathe. But ten minutes into rest, my brain begins offering suggestions like, “Shouldn’t you be doing something right now?” Resting is not something I’m naturally good at—it’s something I practically need to schedule, rehearse, and practice like a sport. But I still call myself someone who “knows how to relax,” even though relaxing is a skill I have yet to master.

And finally, the biggest thing I pretend I’m good at: not caring what people think. I love to say, “I’m living for myself,” or “I don’t worry about what people think.” But the truth is, I care deeply. I care because connection matters to me. I care because I want to belong. I care because, like so many of us, I want to show up authentically while still being accepted. I pretend I don’t care because it sounds empowered, but caring doesn’t make me weak—it makes me human.

So yes, there are plenty of things I pretend I’m good at. And maybe that’s part of the fun. Maybe pretending is just another way of saying we’re trying. We’re learning. We’re hoping. We’re experimenting with the versions of ourselves we want to be. And honestly? If a little pretending gets me closer to the person I hope to become, then I’m completely fine with faking it until I make it—or until I decide it doesn’t matter.

Because at the end of the day, life isn’t about being perfect or skilled or flawlessly competent. It’s about laughing at yourself, embracing your quirks, and admitting that sometimes you’re just doing your best in a world that demands more than that. And if you’ve read this far, then thank you—for putting up with me, for relating to me, and for being part of the wonderfully messy, imperfect world I navigate every single day.