Kiss The Girl!

There is a moment in The Little Mermaid that has nothing to do with mermaids, and everything to do with you.

Prince Eric is sitting in a rowboat on a moonlit lagoon. The fireflies are out. The water is still. Ariel is right there — close enough to touch — and the entire universe seems to have conspired to make this the most perfect moment imaginable. The music swells. The mood is undeniable. And Eric just… sits there. He hesitates. He second-guesses. He waits for some invisible signal that the moment is truly, officially, perfectly right.

From the lily pads, a small, exasperated crab named Sebastian leans in and delivers what may be the most universally applicable piece of advice ever set to a calypso beat:

Kiss the girl.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. This is a children’s movie about a teenager who trades her voice for a pair of legs. What does it have to do with me? Everything. Because if you have ever talked yourself out of something you deeply wanted to do — a class you meant to take, a song you meant to sing, a canvas you meant to paint, a dream you meant to chase — then you have been Prince Eric in that boat. And this essay is your Sebastian.

The Boat We All Sit In

Most of us are carrying around a quiet list. It lives somewhere between the back of our minds and the bottom of our hearts, and it is full of things we have always wanted to try. Singing lessons. Watercolor painting. Learning the guitar. Writing a novel. Taking up photography, pottery, ballroom dancing, or woodworking. The list is different for everyone, but the feeling attached to it is remarkably universal: someday.

Someday, when the kids are older. Someday, when work slows down. Someday, when I have more money, more time, more energy, more courage. Someday, when I feel ready.
The cruelest trick our minds play on us is the myth of the perfect moment. We treat our passions like fine china — too precious to actually use, saved for a special occasion that never quite arrives. We tell ourselves we are being responsible, practical, patient. But what we are actually doing is choosing the comfort of the familiar over the joy of the possible. We are sitting in the boat, watching the moment drift by, and calling it wisdom.

It is not wisdom. It is fear wearing a very convincing disguise.

Why We Hesitate

Psychologists who study procrastination have found something counterintuitive: we do not delay things because we are lazy. We delay them because we are afraid. Specifically, we are afraid of being bad at something, afraid of being judged, and afraid of the vulnerability that comes with being a beginner.

As children, we had no such hang-ups. A five-year-old does not refuse to pick up a crayon because she worries her technique is not yet refined. She draws. She sings at the top of her lungs in the grocery store. She dances without being asked. The joy of doing a thing is entirely sufficient reason to do it.

Somewhere along the way, adulthood teaches us to audit our efforts before we make them. We begin to ask, Am I good enough to deserve to try this? We conflate the act of doing something with the obligation to do it well. And so we wait — not for the right moment, but for a version of ourselves that feels sufficiently qualified to begin.

Dr. Jenna Hepp of Adler University, writing on the psychology of adult hobbies, puts it plainly: the fear of the unknown can trigger anxiety and avoidance, making trying anything new feel overwhelming enough to not even try. This fear convinces us that not trying at all is better than being bad at something new. We choose the safety of inaction over the discomfort of the first step — and we dress that choice up as patience.

But here is what Dale Carnegie understood a century ago, and what research continues to confirm today: inaction breeds fear, and action breeds confidence. The longer you sit in the boat, the harder it becomes to move. The water does not get calmer. The moment does not get more perfect. The only thing that changes is that the window gets a little smaller.

What You Are Actually Giving Up

Let’s talk about what the delay is costing you — not in some abstract, philosophical sense, but in measurable, documented ways.

Research published in the journal Art Therapy found that just 45 minutes of creative activity significantly reduced cortisol — the body’s primary stress hormone — in 75% of participants, regardless of their prior artistic experience or skill level. You do not have to be good at painting for painting to be good for you. The benefit is in the doing, not the mastery.

The Mental Health America organization notes that hobbies activate the parts of the brain that help us process emotions, create a sense of small wins and progress, build social connection, and generate meaning and identity. Music, in particular, has been shown to reduce symptoms of depression and anxiety. Learning new skills promotes neuroplasticity — the brain’s ability to form new connections — which supports cognitive health well into old age.

In other words, that thing you have been putting off? It is not a luxury. It is medicine.

And then there is the longer view.

Bronnie Ware spent years working as a palliative care nurse in Australia, sitting with patients in the final weeks of their lives. She asked them about their regrets. She listened carefully and wrote down what she heard. The most common regret — the one that surfaced again and again, across different lives and different stories — was this:

“I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.”

She observed that most people had not honored even half of their dreams, and had to die knowing that it was due to choices they had made, or had not made. Not bad luck. Not circumstance. Choices. The choice to wait. The choice to play it safe. The choice to stay in the boat.

When you are in the final weeks of your life, Ware found, the physical details fall away. What remains is love, relationships — and the quiet, aching awareness of the things you never let yourself do.

Embrace the Beautiful Mess of Beginning

Here is the permission slip you have been waiting for: you are allowed to be terrible at something.

In fact, being terrible at something is the only honest way to begin. Every painter you admire painted badly first. Every singer you love sang off-key first. Every writer whose words have moved you wrote clunky, awkward sentences first. Mastery is not a prerequisite for joy — it is, at best, a long-term side effect of it.

Dr. Hepp’s research on “beginnerhood” is encouraging on this point. Studies show that trying new activities is associated with enhanced well-being, improved mental health, lower stress levels, and personal growth. Individuals who approach new experiences with curiosity and openness report more fulfilling lives than those who avoid unfamiliar situations. The discomfort of being a beginner is not a warning sign. It is a growth sign.

So what does starting actually look like? It looks like signing up for the community choir even though you have not sung since high school. It looks like buying the beginner watercolor set — the cheap one — and making a mess on a Saturday afternoon. It looks like booking one guitar lesson, not committing to becoming a musician, just showing up for one hour to see how it feels. It looks like writing one paragraph, taking one photo, learning one dance step.

The goal is not to be good. The goal is to begin. And then to begin again tomorrow.

Kiss the Girl

The boat is still on the water. The music is still playing. And whatever it is you have been meaning to do — that thing on the quiet list — it is still there, waiting with more patience than you deserve.

You do not need more time. You do not need more money. You do not need to lose the weight, finish the project, or wait for the kids to leave for college. You need to make a decision, right now, that you are worth the joy of trying.

Want to sing? Sing. Take lessons, join a choir, belt it out in the car — but sing.

Want to paint? Paint. Buy the cheap set, watch a YouTube tutorial, make something ugly and wonderful — but paint.

Want to dance, write, sculpt, photograph, act, play an instrument, or learn to cook? Do it. Start today. Start small. Start imperfectly. Just start.

Lao Tzu said the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. William Butler Yeats said do not wait to strike till the iron is hot — make it hot by striking. And a small animated crab in a 1989 Disney film said it best of all:

Kiss the girl.

The moment is now. The water is calm. The music is playing.

What are you waiting for?

Run With The Cheetahs — because the only race that matters is the one you actually run.