Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. One of history's most annoying prodigies.

I was 7 years old.

It was my piano recital. Before an audience of parents and bored-to-death siblings, I tried not to butcher Beethoven’s Für Elise. I trembled on the stool, feeling all eyes on me, tiny fingers stumbling over the ivories. Polite applause afterwards. Huge hug from beaming Mommy. Flowers from proud Daddy.

Then, a pretty little girl my age with long brown curls stood up, strode toward the piano and played… the entirety of Chopin’s Etude Opus 25 No. 2 in F Minor. Without a SINGLE mistake.

A hush fell over the audience. Baby brothers and sisters stopped crying. Grown-ups were agape, goggling the magical creature with notes flying effortlessly from under her fingers. Most extraordinary of all, everything in the sway of her body, the precision of her fingers and her furrowed brow exuded ‘Adult!’. A miniature concert pianist.

When she finished, the tiny Marriott ballroom shook with thunderous applause.

“Remarkable!” said the grown-ups. “A whiz kid!” “A living prodigy!”

“Shit.” said 7 year old me.

Talk about trumped. Showbiz dream = shattered.

(Although, to be fair, it wasn’t a very well-thought-out dream. Mostly my face on Mariah Carey’s body. Adoring fans. A solid gold house. A rocket car. You know—famous people stuff.)

I recognized on that day that some people are just disgustingly lucky enough to blow minds from birth. They grasp the inner workings of their craft instinctively, while the rest of us are still struggling to read the manual. It’s in their blood. They crackle with brilliance and shimmer with genius.

We ‘normal’ people have to get through life the plebeian way: blood, toil, sweat and tears.

Ew, gradually cultivating talent. Boring. No fair.

But chins up, fellow normal people. No matter how strongly others may stink of talent, there’s one crucial rule that escapes NO ONE:

Without discipline, you got nothin’.

(Ever met a genius without a work ethic? Tragic, isn’t it? All that fancy brain power, and nothing to funnel it into. I always ask them if I can borrow their frontal lobe, just for a little while. They always say no. Annoying.)

And more soothing still: just because you’re not a prodigy doesn’t mean you lack skills or talent.

Potential perma-second-fiddling was a sore spot for me. Why try if the #1 spot is filled? Why even bother if someone else is born to do it anyway? I’ll be forever benched. Invisible. Lame.

I wanted to make a creative living. ‘So does everybody,’ mewled my brain. ‘Don’t even waste your time. Too much competition. Acquire safe, boring job. Lie down. Dream in your sleep. Survive.’

But you know what, brain? That’s a bunch of bologna. (brainlogna?)

Sure, I haven’t written the next Great American Novel. Yet. But not everybody has multiple bookshelves sagging under the weight of journals filled with thoughts, poems and stories that span 2 decades. Not every child kept a detailed travel diary every family vacation. Not every kid made LiveJournal icons on a bootlegged version of Photoshop and wrote fan fiction instead of doing their homework (my bad, Mom).

But I did. Does that count for something? Turns out, it does.

Prodigies are rare. Prodigies that give a crap about their skills after a ‘trick-pony’ childhood? Even more rare. If something comes easily to you, it’ll get boring after a while.

And besides, most fields require more than just talent. It’s about innovation. Hard work. Proving yourself. Pushing yourself. It’s about the connections you make with the people you work with.

So next time you’re down on yourself for being ‘average’, remember:

You have gifts to offer the world. Don’t hide them away just because you’re worried someone might trump you.

Repeat after me: I am great.

Now go get ‘em, tiger.