Lessons From the Penalty Box: Playing It Safe vs. Being Yourself

A few weekends ago, I watched my grandson get sent to the penalty box.

I believe it was for hooking. Or maybe tripping. Clearly, Grandma is still working on her hockey knowledge.

Whatever he did, there was a whistle, an arm went up, and off he skated to sit in the box for two minutes.

Later that same day, four hours away, my granddaughter ended up in the penalty box too.

Her penalty was a little different. From what I understand (again...Grandma hockey knowledge), it had something to do with the coach and the referee. She hadn’t actually committed the penalty, but someone from the team had to sit in the box.

So there they were. Both of my grands. Same day. Different rinks. Both spending a little time in the box.

And somewhere between games, I started thinking...

When was the last time I was in the penalty box?

Not literally. I don’t skate, and I’m pretty sure no one needs to witness me attempting it.

But when was the last time I took a risk big enough that I might get something wrong?
When was the last time I said something knowing someone might disagree?
Tried something knowing I might fail?
Made a play knowing there was a possibility someone would blow the whistle?

Because I’ve realized something about myself lately.

I’ve been playing a little too safe.

As many of you know, I recently dusted off a very old dream and wrote a book. (Even writing that sentence makes me smile.)

A book.

For years and years I’ve loved words. I’ve filled journals, written blog posts, scribbled thoughts on scraps of paper and tucked ideas away for “someday.”

And somewhere along the way, someday became now.

Writing the book gave me courage to start writing more again too...not just for the book, but essays and thoughts and stories from ordinary life.

I was having so much fun. Then I received my first big round of edits back from my editor. And they were good edits. Really good.

My feelings weren’t hurt. I wasn’t offended. In fact, I was incredibly grateful because she saw places where the book could become stronger, clearer and more useful to the person who will someday hold it in her hands.

So I went to work. I tightened. Moved things. Reworked sentences. Cut words. Added words.

Polished. And polished some more.

Which is exactly what editing a book sometimes requires.

The problem was...I apparently forgot to turn off my editing brain.

I took that same approach into everything I was writing. I’d write a blog post and then clean it up. Fix the grammar. Work on sentence structure. Move a paragraph. Run it through Grammarly. Sometimes ask AI to help me see where something wasn’t flowing.

Then I’d polish it again.
And again.

Until this past weekend.

I reread something I had recently written and shared.

And my heart sank. It wasn’t bad. Actually, it was probably technically better than some of the things I’ve written before. The sentences were nice. The grammar was good. It flowed. It was...polished.

And yet something was missing.

Me.

I don’t know any other way to describe it except that it felt a little like a Holy Spirit nudge.

Kim...where did you go?

Because if you know me, you probably know I’m kind. Dependable. Professional.
But polished? I’m not sure that’s an adjective anyone has ever used to describe me.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’ve always admired polished women.

You know the ones. Perfect nails. Beautiful hair. Clothes that somehow never wrinkle. They look put together even when they’re just running into Target.

I’ve spent portions of my life thinking I’d like to become one of those women.

And then I look down and realize there’s probably chai tea on my shirt and I’m carrying three notebooks, two pens and a receipt I’ve been meaning to throw away for four days.

Apparently polished just isn’t my spiritual gift. And maybe my writing doesn’t need to be either.

Somewhere along the way I became afraid of ellipses.

Me.

The woman who has used three dots as punctuation, transition, dramatic pause and occasionally an entire emotional support system for most of her adult life.

And don’t even get me started on exclamation points!!! Or parentheses. (I really love parentheses.)

And apparently the em dash has now become controversial too.

Oh no.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized this wasn’t really about punctuation.

It was about fear.
Fear of sounding foolish.
Fear of being misunderstood.
Fear of someone thinking I’m not a “real” writer.
Fear that if I didn’t make every sentence just right, someone might decide I wasn’t very good at this after all.

So instead of playing the game, I started protecting myself from the penalty box.

And I wonder how often we do that in life.

We don’t say what we’re thinking because someone might disagree.
We don’t submit the application because we might not get picked.
We don’t start the business because it might fail.
We don’t write the story because someone might criticize it.

We don’t try the class. Make the call. Ask the question. Share the idea. We research a little more. Prepare a little longer. Polish a little harder. Wait until we’re more confident.

And suddenly we’re standing on the ice...

but we’re not really playing.

Cancer taught me something years ago that apparently I needed my grandchildren to remind me of at a hockey rink:

Playing it safe doesn’t guarantee you won’t get hurt.

I did many of the things I thought I was supposed to do. I tried to take care of myself. I tried to live a healthy life.

And I still got cancer.

Sometimes you can do everything “right” and still find yourself sitting somewhere you never expected to be.

So why do I spend so much energy trying to protect myself from something as survivable as an awkward sentence? A mistake? Someone disagreeing with me?

A little time in the penalty box?

My grandson sat there for his two minutes. Then the door opened. He skated back onto the ice.

My granddaughter served the team’s penalty. The door opened. Back into the game.

Neither one sat there thinking...

Well, that’s it. Apparently I’m terrible at hockey. I should probably hang up my skates and reconsider my entire identity.

They just went back out and played.

Maybe there’s something there for the rest of us.

Take the shot. Make the play. Try the thing. Risk getting it wrong.

And if the whistle blows once in a while?

Sit in the box. Learn what you can. Then get back on the ice.

I’m going to keep using tools that help me become a better writer. I’m going to listen to my editor. I’m going to learn grammar and sentence structure and all the things I probably should have paid more attention to in freshman English.

But I’m also going to leave some fingerprints on the page.

The ellipses. The parentheses. An occasional run-on sentence. Probably too many exclamation points.

Because I’d rather write something slightly imperfect that sounds like me than something beautifully polished where I can no longer find myself.

And maybe that applies to more than writing.

Maybe being fully alive requires us to risk a little time in the penalty box.

So here’s the question I’m carrying with me from the rink:

Where have you been playing it so safe that you’ve stopped playing like yourself?

Maybe it’s time to get back in the game.

Even if someone blows the whistle.

Sometimes getting back in the game starts with picking up something we quietly put down years ago. In The Dream on the Shelf, I wrote about what happened when I finally paid attention to one of mine again.
Read The Dream on the Shelf →HERE