The Dao of Dorian | My First Day

On Beginning Badly

The first day never feels like you think it will. You wake up expecting a soundtrack, maybe sunlight throught he blinds, somethign cinematic. What you get is a lukewarm cup of coffee, a shirt that doesn’t fit right, and the sudden awareness that your deodorant is losing the will to fight. You tell yourself, “This is destiny,” but destiny has pit stains.

John Dorian thought he was ready. He’d done the work—the studying, the memorizing, the sleepless nights fueled by caffeine and questionable optimism. He thought there’d be a moment when he’d feel the transformation, when he’d look in the mirror and see someone who knew what they were doing. instead, he walked into a hospital that pulsed with motion and confidence, surrounded by people who move like they’d been born in scrubs. He tried to keep up. Mostly, he tried not to sweat through his coat.

The truth is, beginnings rarely announce themselves as beginnings. They sneak up disguised as mistakes, confusion, and self-doubt. you don’t know you’re in the middle of something important until much later, when hindsight makes everything seem tidy. At the time, you’re just lost. Scared. Uncertain. Trying not to ask the same question twice.

There’s a kind of poetry in that, though. Everyone’s terrified, even the confident ones. The difference is that some people have learned how to hide it better. They walk a little faster, talk a little louder, fill the space before doubt can catch them. The rest of us move slower, hoping no one notices we’re improvising our way through every conversation.

Humility has a funny way of sneaking up on you. It doesn’t arrive with peace or grace; it hits like a collision between ego and reality. One moment you’re sure of yourself, the next you’re choking on your own imcompetence. But that’s the cost of groth. It’s the bruises you earn from crashing into the limits of what you know. Every new skill, every new version of yourself, requires a few good falls.

That’s the lesson of the first day. Failure isn’t something that happens after effort; it’s part of the effort itself. You can’t separate the two. Every mistake you make is a conversation with the world, and if you listen closely, it’s trying to tell you something. The only real failure is pretending you already understand.

J.D. learned that confidence doesn’t come from pretending to be perfect. It comes from surviving your own imperfection long enough to stop being embarrassed by it. once you stop hiding, you start growing. People respond to honesty in a way they never do to polish. The moment you say, “I don’t know,” you invite someone else to say, “Me, neither.” And suddenly, you’re both learning instead of performing.

The funny thing about humility is that it feels terrible while it’s happening and essential once it’s over. It clears space. It burns away the unnecessary layers of pride and pressure until you’re left with something small and simple: the will to try again. That’s the moment when growth starts to feel possible. Not because you’ve conquered fear, but because you’ve made peace with it.

By the end of the first day, J.D. wasn’t any smarter or braver than he’d been that morning. But he was a little quieter inside. The noise had softened. The panic was still there, but it no longer felt like proof that he didn’t belong. it just meant he cared enough to want to do better.

Tomorrow would be another chance to get it wrong in new and exciting ways. And that was okay. Every sunrise is just another reminder that life doesn’t ask you to be ready; it asks you to show up.

So maybe the art of beginning isn’t about knowing what you’re doing. Maybe it’s about forgiving yourself for not knowing, and doing it anyway.

Because falling flat isn’t failure. It’s how you find your balance.

Author’s Note

The Dao of Dorian is just me trying to pull a little wisdom out of a show that once helped me feel less lost. I don’t pretend to have life figured out. Most days I’m just learning as I go and appreciating the moments that teach me something before they disappear. If this is your first post, welcome. You’re in good company.