Apparently, I grew up.

For many years, my answer to this prompt would have been reflexive; I like that my answer has changed.

This is going to be a long and roundabout explanation, so bear with me. (Or, you know, don’t. There’s lots of other stuff on Prose, after all.)

I had no intention of writing for this until I read a line in HEDunkle’s response to the original self-love challenge: “The only way I can talk about myself in a way that doesn’t feel prideful is in the third person…” That resonated. My father taught me, sternly, not to brag. I vividly remember his reaction when, around age 11, I was ostentatiously counting how many seconds I could do something in front of a room of people. I honestly no longer remember what capability I was demonstrating. I just remember the contempt in his voice on the car ride home: “You were showing off.” You should have heard him when some wide receiver would perform an endzone celebration on TV. He taught me well; no showboating. I learned.

Thus, I had no interest in writing and violating my father’s precept, HEDunkle’s line reminded me why I would never just give the reflexive answer of what I like about myself, “I’m smart.” And then, to my sudden surprise, I realized something: that old answer, so foundational to my person that I had ceased to examine it, no longer fits. I am, genuinely, not proud of it anymore. And I felt very happy and free.

For the majority of my life, my identification as “smart” defined my existence, probably starting in first grade. Another boy called me “nerdy.” It hurt; I did not fit in with my peers, and I already knew it. It turns out that even first grade girls laugh if you attempt to woo them with your encyclopedic knowledge of dinosaurs. But mockery for one’s intelligence has a strange, paradoxical effect in that the target feels inferior and superior simultaneously. I am lesser than you because I am smart and cannot fit in, and you scorn the trait I hold in abundance; and because of that trait I am greater than you and unlike you. The classic formulation of this vicious, circular logic refers to future life: “living well is the best revenge.” I thought about that phrase in elementary school. In eighth and ninth grade—relegated to the periphery of a friend group, unappealing to girls, afraid of tougher peers, and desperately trying to place my hands to conceal the worst acne on my face on any given day—that phrase became my mantra.

Late high school got better. I joined the Academic Decathlon team and made a few genuinely close friends (this July, I’ll perform the wedding ceremony for one of them). A couple girls dated me, which meant I was worthy of love (that logic sounded less stupid when I was 16). A very good dermatologist prescribed Accutane, which after multiple courses successfully shut down my oil glands and gave me comfort in public for the first time in three years.

But my brain remained my game. A philosophy professor in college gave us this exercise where you rank the things most important to your identity. By imagining life without those things, you determine what matters most. It wasn’t part of his instructions, but I always imagined a traumatic loss. Appearance matters to you? Disfigurement in a fire. Family or friends make you who you are? Car accident. Athletic ability? Quadriplegia. Religious beliefs? Absolute proof of a godless universe. Figure out which loss would most totally destroy you; that thing matters most to your sense of self. I’d complete this exercise every couple years, and my number one always remained the same: intelligence. Strip away anything else, I figured, and I might be miserable, but I’d still be me. My mind was my life preserver. For years, my brain had been the only part of my body or soul I’d liked; without it, I’d drown. It was my comfort, my companion, my coping mechanism, my pride and my problem.

I feel like I need to give a clear example to show both what kind of “smart” I mean and how it affected me. My senior year of high school, my Model United Nations team got called by judges at an Ohio competition to accept a trophy. Several voices on the team said, “Ryan should go.” I had trained several of the younger team members, and I would counsel teammates on courses of action during lunches or evenings at the hotel. I had even strategized with our advisor about who should receive which assignment. I had never thought of myself as a captain, but apparently my teammates did, and I took pride in the recognition. But there was another moment of recognition at that Model UN conference I remember equally well. During a committee break I started chatting with someone from another school about Academic Decathlon – one of us was wearing a pin, or using a branded pen, or I don’t know what. He asked what my score had been at the state-level competition. I would not have broached the subject (“You were showing off,” my father had said on the car ride home), but he brought it up, so I told him what I scored. “No you didn’t,” he replied. I assured him that really was my score, and that I had been the individual state champion in Pennsylvania. He gave me a couple content questions from that Decathlon year, which I answered easily. “I’m sorry for doubting you,” he said. “I’ve just never met anyone like you.”

There are also interview, speech, and essay categories, but since seven multiple choice tests are at the heart of Academic Decathlon, here’s a question.

The boy’s assertion that he had “never met anyone like me” was

A) complimentary

B) alienating

C) both A and B.

On that day in 2001, I would have gotten it wrong and picked A. It was indeed a nice thing to say, though even then I knew he had overestimated me. (I have met actual geniuses; I am not one.) But his comment also ended our conversation. I can offer one further proof that the above answer is C. This post is the first time I have told literally anyone this story. For all these years, I have kept the anecdote to myself because it is simply not the kind of thing you can tell someone. My conversation with that Model UN kid, and a handful of others like it, has been an untellable secret.

A year or two ago I attended a teaching workshop and carpooled with a colleague and close friend. At one point, wanting us to think of ways to support students, the instructor said, “We’ve all failed a test at one point. How did you work through your struggles?” Teacher after teacher shared a story while I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

It kept bothering me. On the ride home with my friend, I decided we were close enough I could tell her. My stomach clenched, but I had determined that I should talk to her, and I was going to. “I’ve never struggled in school,” I confessed. She said she had noticed I was uncomfortable and guessed it was something like that. “I’ve never failed a test,” I went on. “All through high school and college I got A’s. I’ve never had to study for a test.” I knew she would still be a friend afterward, and it felt good to just tell her why I had shrunk down and stayed uncharacteristically silent during a discussion. Yet we also changed the subject shortly thereafter. I don’t really know what she was thinking, and I’m happier not making guesses.

I am incredibly fortunate to have the academic capability I do. There’s also a burden that comes with it, and for me, it was never about expectations of success—my excellent parents put happiness above status and never cared if their kid was a doctor, and my dad turned down multiple promotions rather than make his family move. My issue was that even first grade girls would laugh when I tried to woo them with my encyclopedic knowledge of dinosaurs. I learned to keep my achievements and knowledge to myself, never to show off, and never to discuss how I felt about being smart. Simple enough. I just couldn’t talk about the most significant component of my identity.

So I looked at the challenge asking me to share one thing I like about myself, and I knew I could not share what I took so much pride in because it was unmentionable and unpardonable to say “I like that I’m smart.” And I thought back to that personality test from my philosophy prof and all the times I had picked “intelligence” as most important, and I realized it would be wrong now. I realized that I could answer the prompt, and that I don’t have to hide what I’m proud of anymore.

I’m proud that I can read a student’s paragraph and diagnose exactly where her writing process went astray. I’m proud that I can teach a 200-year-old novel to an English class full of vocational students and help them feel genuine anger when Wickham runs off with Lydia. I’m proud that I changed my mind and became a teacher instead of a stock broker who would have spent his life making more money for rich people. I’m proud that I can advise my friends on courses of action when they need it. I’m proud that I can share my love and knowledge of Hitchcock movies with my daughter, who at age 8 said her favorite movie was Strangers on a Train. I’m proud that I can write a strong letter to the editor endorsing the right school board candidate; I’m proud that my friends ask me to edit their letters. I’m proud that I’ve coached community theatre actors through Shakespeare, and proud that I organized and advertised those productions so students in this rural area could go watch decent Shakespeare for free. I’m proud of my family. I’m proud that I can be a thoughtful father, one who can (I hope) help his children feel a healtheir self-esteem than I did.

I’m not proud of being smart anymore because “smart” is a bullshit way to define yourself. I’m proud of what I can do with my mind to help people.

I don’t know when it happened exactly, but I think I grew up.