"Your uncle is iconic!" I am pressed against the makeshift coat rack in a postage-stamp-sized DC dive bar, watching my brother-in-law Richie work his magic. The Colgate Resolutions (my son's a cappella group) just finished their set, and now parents and alumni are mingling around making small talk, while still humming "Rich Girl" under our collective breath.
I lean in enthusiastically, asking the 18-to-22-year-olds about their lives, their music, their dreams. They're unfailingly polite, in that way that screams, "Please stop talking to me, Random Mom."
Mrs. Deagle isn't the star of this parent show.
That honor belongs to Uncle Richie, who's currently holding court near the bar, turning some story about a parking mishap into comedy gold.
My son Connor gets praise by association — cool by virtue of having the coolest uncle around. I get to be the mom who pretends she doesn’t hear when they're talking about girls or beer.
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I know second place well.
You could say I'm a connoisseur of silver medals, a sommelier of runner-up trophies.
Growing up, my sister Amy was always our Grandma Tillie's favorite. This wasn't up for debate — it was just one of those immutable facts, like gravity or the impossibility of folding a fitted sheet. My brother Eric and I turned our battle for second place into an Olympic sport. One year he'd surge ahead with a ceramic Christmas tree (complete with Lite-Brite-style glass ornaments), the next I'd counter with a Vatican rosary that had our devout Catholic grandmother swooning. We made it a family joke; even Tillie got in on it. "Well," she'd say, eyes twinkling while examining my latest offering, "this might put you ahead of Eric. For now."
(Looking back, she was clearly the winner of me and Eric’s battle.)
I carried this comfortable relationship with supporting roles into adulthood. In my corporate career, I was often the person making others look good. In my marriage, Mike's light shone so bright that his shadow felt like home. Some people are meant to be spotlights. Some of us are pretty good at being the people who know where to aim them.
But let's be honest — no matter how many self-deprecating jokes we make about it, sometimes second place stings like hell.
When we're passed over, overlooked, relegated to the B-list. When someone else's measuring stick makes us feel about two inches tall. When we strain and strive to be remarkable, only to end up remarkably drained.
School, athletics, work — everything trains us to believe that first place is the only place that matters.
But looking back, I've noticed there's a distinct difference between doing my best, and trying to be The Best.
When I've tried to be The Best, ignoring my natural talents or more importantly, my authentic desires, it's never worked out. Trying to make the other bus-stop moms like me, when I'm just a different sort of breed. Or squashing my whacky sense of humor to impress a potential investor who ended up backing out anyway. Each time, the harder I pushed for perfect, the less like myself I felt.
That's a recipe for not just second place, but for self-judgment and eventual burnout.
Which brings me back to Richie, who is simultaneously photobombing while backslapping a kid laughing so hard that beer is coming out his nose. Here's a guy who's never met a room he couldn't charm, a stranger he couldn't befriend, or a moment he couldn't make lighter. His secret? He's not trying. He's just being Richie. The magic isn't in being iconic — it's in not caring if you are.
Sometimes the harder we chase first place, the further it flees.
We twist ourselves into human pretzels trying to fit someone else's idea of winning, while getting farther from the one thing we can't help but excel at — being ourselves.
I spent years climbing ladders I hadn't even chosen. Measuring my worth against standards I hadn't even set. And for what? So someone else could declare me worthy? So I could finally feel like enough?
It took me decades to realize I was using the wrong measuring stick. Like trying to weigh sunshine or calculate the value of a laugh. Some things can't be ranked. Some things aren't meant to be won.
As the evening wraps, Richie delights his groupies with a final few knee-slapping stories, while I start helping alumni find their coats. He's right where he should be, and so am I.
Turns out there's a difference between being runner-up and being exactly where you belong.
To finding our own place,
Sue
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