Why I'm Proud To Be A Late Bloomer

I have always nurtured the fantasy of being a “naturally talented” person. Of gliding through life on the wings of a God-given gift. Of being someone who can't help but wildly succeed at everything they do.

Growing up, my hero was George Best - arguably the greatest footballer this nation has ever produced. He had the boldness and panache to run at hordes of defenders, and the sublime talent to leave them scrabbling in his wake. Watching him was a joyous experience, and it helped that he was more beautiful than most rockstars. Everything he did looked effortless and iconic. 

Aside from the fact that we're both straight white males, I consider myself to be the polar opposite of George Best. I'm neither beautiful, charismatic, nor particularly talented at anything. And nothing has come easy to me; I've had to fight and graft for everything I have. At one time this may have made me feel bitter, impatient or hopeless. But looking back, I feel nothing but immense gratitude. Because having struggled so much, I now take nothing for granted. I cherish every opportunity that comes along, and seek to maximise each to its full potential. 

What do I mean when I say I’ve struggled? Allow me to expand.

Throughout my twenties, I felt like a failure. I was deeply unhappy in both my work and personal relationships. I was a call centre automaton, I flipped burgers, I taught disruptive kids in atrocious schools; bouncing from one job to another, feeling no real care and hating every second.  

It’s not that I see these jobs as low or dishonourable - quite the contrary. Teaching in particular requires more discipline, patience and integrity than almost any other profession. The root of my unhappiness was simple: I wanted to be a stand-up comedian, but I was too afraid to try. I was cowed by the thought that I had no talent, that I’d never succeed, that it would be a waste of time. So I hunched my shoulders, and drank away my feelings.

The worst part was that other people - particularly those close to me - could see this resignation and low self-worth. I remember when my Mum’s friends would ask her how I was doing, and I would time how long it would take for her to change the subject (spoiler alert: not long). She was disappointed in me - again, not because of my job per se, but because I didn’t have the courage to live the life I wanted.

Financially, things got so bad at one point that I was putting cardboard in my shoes to cover up the holes. And when I say ‘my shoes’, I mean my Dad’s shoes. When it rained I would have to change my socks - and replace the cardboard. These shoes looked so awful that bouncers would turn me away from nightclubs. I devised a system whereby a friend would enter the club, find a suitable window, and toss his shoes down to me so I could get in. A plan worthy of Ocean’s Eleven, as I’m sure you’ll agree. The only issue was that his feet were significantly smaller than mine, so I’d end up tottering into the club like a Chinese woman in the time of foot-binding.

It took until the age of 29 for ambition to outweigh cowardice. I resolved that I would make a success of stand-up comedy - not by being more talented than everybody else, but by simply outworking them. If they did three gigs a week, I would do four. If they wrote five jokes a day, I would write ten. This approach nourished and fulfilled me. I slept soundly at night with the knowledge that I'd worked as hard as I could at what I most wanted to do. And slowly but surely, that same approach bled into every other part of my life: I gave up drinking, because I didn't want to feel too wretched to work the next day. I stopped wasting time, because time was now valuable to me. Even in the job I didn't really want to be doing, my focus and work ethic were transformed, and I was graded ‘outstanding’ as a teacher. The resulting self-confidence boost also meant that I finally moved out of my parents’ house, and began my first real romantic relationship. 

Fast-forward several years: the stand-up comedy is progressing well, the podcast I co-founded now has over a million subscribers, and I'm taking better care of my health and mental wellbeing than ever before. None of these things happened overnight. They were the result of small, incremental, painful changes - all of which stemmed from that one decision to value hard work over natural talent.

If you wish to change your life, there is no method more effective and reliable than hard work. If there is something you really want to do, but you don’t think you’re up to the challenge, for goodness’ sake give yourself a chance. Dedicate yourself to it, work as hard as you can, and be patient. Don’t worry about not being talented. Let’s think back to George Best; the guy had all the talent in the world, but he let booze and drugs damage his career and shorten his lifespan. Talent alone is no ticket to an easy or fulfilling life. As the saying goes, hard work beats talent when the talent doesn’t work hard. 

And it’s never too late. There is no shame in being a late bloomer; in fact, it’s a beautiful thing. You’ve done things according to your own schedule. You’ve met your destiny on your own terms. Last year I was having breakfast in L.A. with a friend from university, who at one point looked me in the eye and told me bluntly: “Out of everyone in our friendship group, I never thought you would be the one to make it. None of us did.”

I didn’t feel bad. I felt conscious of my inner strength. I felt joy and gratitude. If there’s anyone out there in the same position I once was, just trust me: if I can do it, so can you.