BY TISH COWAN
My first cringe came in the form of an incorrect math problem.
One day in middle school, I noticed the math problem that Mrs.Tuttle had written on the chalkboard was solved–incorrectly.
I looked around to see if anyone else had noticed. Was this some kind of test? Was Mrs.Tuttle trying to identify who was paying attention?
I raised my hand. “Yes?” she asked, one eyebrow raised.
“That’s incorrect…That’s not the right answer.”
She tilted her head, face furrowed. With a half-laugh, she challenged, “Well then, what is the answer?”
I thought that this was part of her game. She wanted us to find her mistake. Quickly I wrote out the numbers in my notebook. Heart pounding, I blurted out the answer.
She shook her head. “That’s incorrect.”
The classroom filled with snickers. All eyes were on me and I could feel my face flush red. Confused, I looked down at the equation and ran the numbers through just as we had been taught. I had the correct answer.
“Turn to page 126 in your text,” Mrs. Tuttle said, with enough authority to indicate that the matter was closed.
I should have let it go. I should have opened the math book, chagrined, and moved on. But I didn’t. I had the right answer–I knew it.
“But you’re wrong.”
“Pardon?” Mrs.Tuttle turned to me.
I stiffened in my chair, as did the other students. No one breathed.
I caught glimpses of the other students looking at me out of the corners of their eyes in a way that confused me. Didn’t they see? Why wouldn’t anyone else speak up that she had made an error?
Taking a deep breath, I recited my calculation, the correct answer, and where she had made her mistake.
“That’s enough, young lady.” She snapped open a folder and made a note.
When I arrived home that day, my mom told me that she had received a call from the principal, who said that I had been insubordinate (whatever that meant).
In a meeting the next day, the principal acknowledged that my answer had been correct, and apologized to my mother, who had left work early.
Though it felt really good to be right, Mrs. Tuttle and my classmates had made their mark. The sideways looks, the whispers, the snickers–I had been made to feel small. Challenging our teacher had made my classmates uncomfortable and embarrassed for me. But in the moment, I hadn’t realized that–all I could perceive was the glaring error that no one else could see.
It was the first of many occasions through the years of school and then my career where two particular feelings would creep into my life: embarrassment and discomfort.
Not my own, but what others felt for me.
Me.
It was my earliest cringe.
Wikipedia offers that “something is cringe if it elicits feelings of discomfort or embarrassment stemming from an action or aspect that is contrary to popular or personal aesthetics.” These days, the word is everywhere, from the New York Times to #CringeTok. Even Merriam-Webster has embraced slang usage.
And while the word seems to be on everyone’s lips, the worst part about doing something cringe is you don’t usually feel it in yourself.
I mean, that’s the point, isn’t it? It feels fine to tell the joke–until it doesn’t land. Or to passionately address some workplace issue–until no one else thinks it’s a big deal. Or to try to personally connect with someone and share a similar experience–until their reaction tells you that you overshared.
You don’t feel the cringe in you.
You feel it in the looks of other people.
The involuntary eye-rolling. Their sharp intake of breath that says, “Here we go.” The tiny smirk that shows they’re just waiting for you to finish. How they walk away before you’re done, offering an excuse as halfhearted as their attention.
And that’s when the cringe kicks in. HARD.
You’re full-on obsessing over what you could have said or done differently, while also feeling the memory of every previous humiliation play on loop. For those of us who identify as neurodivergent, it’s even worse–studies have shown we’re more likely to experience “emotional dysregulation,” leading to heightened feelings of embarrassment and shame. It’s not just the one bad incident we’re reliving, but the full fail-reel screensaver of all our worst cringes.
What’s most crushing about cringe isn’t what we feel in the moment–it’s what we do afterward. In an attempt to avoid adding another reel to the shame loop, we change behavior in a variety of ways. We hide instead of seeking spotlights. We chase approval instead of debating. Rather than being authentic, we flee the next conflict by assimilating.
Cringe’s big impact is that we get smaller.
But what if cringe is essential to the creative vision that ultimately makes us amazing? What if seeing the world differently and daring to share that unique perception is actually a strength? What if there’s not just a value to cringe, but an ART to it?
Great art and innovation start with a spark–a flash of creativity that someone dares to share with the world. This vision forces us to consider other possibilities, and in the process of trying on a different pair of glasses, we see the world differently. Great art and innovation take risks and challenge the status quo. Sound like anyone?
But creative vision isn’t always a straight shot to success.
Consider Jackson Pollock. Early in his career he painted a range of unremarkable, even painfully plain landscapes. But seven years later? He was producing Mural, one of his signature works.
As a writer, Jane Austen’s masterpieces are lauded for their realism, manners, and social commentary. But early critics didn’t know what to make of her work–they misunderstood her use of irony and declared her use of realism to be evidence of a “deficient imagination.”
When Thomas Edison first announced his intention to create an electric light bulb, his idea was dismissed as a “conspicuous failure,” and “unworthy of the attention of practical and scientific men.”
Van Gogh’s Starry Night received mixed reviews from critics at the time. Even Van Gogh felt it a failure because it “strayed too far from nature and into abstraction.” Yet how many, upon seeing that painting, ever look at the night sky the same way?
If any of these visionaries had retreated from the cringe and criticism, we wouldn’t have the great art and inventions they ultimately made. By embracing their worst work and harshest criticism, their growth was possible.
And when we neurodivergent folks learn from our cringe, we can use our legendary attention to detail and over-analysis to adjust our strategy.
Does that mean our next attempt won’t be cringe to our audience?
No. But that might help us be even more creative and daring.
Science is only just catching up to what we know innately: being creative and being cringe go hand in hand. In a recent study quoted in the New York Times, researchers suggested that “social stigma clouds our perceptions of creativity.” A 2012 study found an implicit bias against creativity that was traced to the “fundamentally disruptive nature of novel and original creations.” As the article puts it, “Creativity means change, without the certainty of desirable results.”
It’s not just artists who’ve faced heavy criticism for the perceived threat their work poses to established norms. Galileo was ridiculed and accused of heresy for claiming the earth was round. Although he eventually proved everyone wrong about the lightbulb, Thomas Edison also clocked a slew of epic fails. From bicycles to umbrellas, many of our most necessary everyday essentials were originally mocked as useless or ridiculous.
Risk-taking is necessary to innovation. As investor Scott Galloway says, “Failure and invention are inseparable twins. To invent you have to experiment, and if you know in advance that it’s going to work, it’s not an experiment.”
So when we dare to risk the cringe, we open opportunities for creativity, innovation, and a new perspective on the world.
I now look back on that long-ago first cringe in math class with appreciation. I spoke up. I took a risk. I challenged the status quo. For it, I received snickers, made the whole room uncomfortable, and ended up in the principal’s office.
But I also saw something no one else had seen.
Moments like that can lead to some rough roads–sometimes a straight-up car crash–but they always drive us toward our eventual evolution. Knowing this may not make the cringe easy, comfortable, or less physically painful, but at least you know the destination.
So get in the car.
We’re going to where the creativity is.
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