Grow Some Balls

Painting available at Houska Gallery

Have you ever met a person who gets overly annoyed by the smallest things?

The kind of person who feels obligated to narrate the moral collapse of civilization every time someone fails to use their blinker?

I never wanted to be that guy. 

I've always been a pretty amicable person. I never pictured myself scanning daily life for evidence that society was rotting from the inside out. I didn’t plan on becoming a cynical old curmudgeon with a running commentary about how younger generations lack work ethic, manners, or “the way we did things back in the day.”

But I can remember the exact day when cynicism became too enticing to resist.

Nicole (my wife) peeked around the corner of my studio and reminded me the infant-loss memorial was today. I scrambled to get myself ready, feeling like a complete door knob for forgetting. I was usually an attentive husband, but I conveniently distracted myself from what I subconsciously didn't want to face.

She had paid to have Finley’s name engraved on one of the bricks lining the new sidewalk at a park near our house. Families would gather. Names would be read. Flowers would be handed out.

At the time, I didn’t fully understand what it means to hear those names spoken aloud. 

Miscarriage occupies an odd space in our culture, too real to ignore, too uncomfortable to linger over. Parents are often left wondering whether their grief is legitimate. What is undeniable are the hopes already formed, the names already spoken, the futures already imagined. And for many, speaking those names is a quiet rebellion against their stillborn dreams. 

When we arrived at the park, around fifty people were gathered around a fountain bubbling softly under manicured shrubs. It was idyllic. The kind of place where yoga mats appear spontaneously on Tuesday mornings.

A woman stepped up to the podium and began reading the inscriptions on each paver lining the brick sidewalk.

“Baby Alissa, we love you.”

“Glen Thompson, forever in our hearts.”

“Precious Paige, we’ll dance one day.”

After each name, a family came forward and chose a carnation from a wicker basket.

It was tender.

And then…

Soft voices from behind me drew my attention.

Two women carrying on a slightly too loud conversation about the logistical nightmare of parenting toddlers, smiles and head nods and hand gestures, like this was a swap meet and not a moment requiring at least a passing acquaintance with reverence.

Probably not the place, I thought. But okay...Breathe.

Then the dog arrived.

A massive one.

It spotted another dog across the park and began barking. Lunging and foaming-at-the-mouth like it was auditioning for a prison-yard movie.

The man holding the leash seemed utterly unconcerned, as if he’d brought a latte instead of a ballistic fur missile.

Surely he’ll read the room and take the dog back to his car, I thought.

Nope.

The woman leaned into the microphone and spoke louder.

“Carrie Smith, be at peace.”

“Michael Alexander, you are missed.”

A cellphone rang.

I closed my eyes, Please, for the love of all that's holy, don’t pick up, I prayed silently.

“Hello.”

Not whispered, but answered with confidence. What followed was a casual conversation; something about a Dodge Neon, a spoiler and easy monthly payments.

That was it.

I was no longer listening to names, I was mentally preparing to flip tables at a memorial service.

And right as I tried to regain my composure, the woman at the podium read the next inscription:

“Grow some balls.”

I froze.

Did she just…

I glanced at Nicole who had a smirk that read, “we must be in the twilight zone.”

I wasn’t entirely sure I’d heard correctly, the poor woman sped through it as if compressing the syllables might transform the phrase into something sounding vaguely Norwegian.

After the names were read, in one of my less mature moments, I declared a new life mission: to find that brick and confirm what I heard. Nicole giggled as I set off like a bloodhound with a master’s degree in pettiness.

Sure enough. No denying it.

There it was, etched in stone.

Right between “Darling Angel” and “Always Remembered.” read…

Grow some balls.

I stared at it thinking: I hate people.

What was that supposed to mean here? Sarcasm? Inside joke? A cryptic Midwestern koan?

I didn’t care.

I marched past the fountain convinced that society was officially in decline and probably poisoning the water supply.

I was done.

Done with society.

Done with soccer moms and barking dogs and cheap carnations.

My tolerance for humanity had dropped to zero.

And here’s the dangerous part:

It felt good.

Contempt always does. It straightens your spine. Raises you three inches taller. Hands you a laminated badge that says I’m not like these people.

It offers a tidy explanation for why the world disappoints you and congratulates you for noticing.

It flatters you with the illusion that you see what others don’t.

What they don't tell you, is that self-righteous indignation comes at the cost of something important...

Your creativity.

Cynicism Is the Enemy of Making

Cynicism can be hard to diagnose. It's easy to confuse it with judgment. There are, of course, times to notice when something is wrong, to take action when we see injustice and abuse, but cynicism isn't merely an evaluation, it’s a conclusion reached in advance. 

Cynicism is what happens when skepticism stops asking questions and starts issuing verdicts. It scoffs at risk, shrugs at new ideas, and trades wonder for eye-rolling. Instead of leaning into what might be possible, it assumes the future will look exactly like the worst parts of the past, and then wonders why nothing ever changes.

It masquerades as sophistication, but it is poison for creativity.

Art does not come from standing above the world with folded arms.

It comes from kneeling in it. 

Cynicism reduces people to caricatures.

Artists depend on particularity.

Cynicism rushes to conclusions.

Art lingers in mystery.

Cynicism says, I already know what this is.

Art says, I wonder what this really is.

When cynicism becomes our default posture, we stop seeing.

We stop listening.

We stop being surprised.

And the minute an artist believes they’ve outgrown wonder, their work starts appealing only to those with the same dull sarcastic lens through which they view the world.

Pride steps forward.

Hope shrinks.

The world flattens into categories instead of opening into stories.

What I Missed That Day

Here’s the part I didn’t see yet:

That brick probably wasn’t meant to be cruel. 

Maybe it was grief in the only language they had available to them. 

Someone who didn’t know how to carve something heartfelt, so they chiseled bravado instead. Someone saying to themselves, don’t collapse, survive.

Perhaps I wasn't all that different.

I was so busy constructing a theory about what was wrong with humanity that I failed to see the humanity right in front of me, the barking dogs, the ringing phones, the awkward interruptions and ordinary clumsiness of people trying, imperfectly, to show up. 

I was blind to the very chaos out of which new creation is always being ordered.

Sometimes cynicism is born from arrogance, and sometimes it's a shield from pain.

From disappointment.

From loving the world enough to be wounded by it.

But here's the trap:

If we don’t notice cynicism before it calcifies into contempt, it slowly stifles our creative life.

For You, the Artist

Pay attention to the stories you tell yourself about people.

Notice when irritation quietly becomes a worldview.

When frustration hardens into ideology.

When disappointment attempts to crown itself as wisdom.

Notice when cynicism hardens your heart, because it stiffens your brush too.

The world is already crowded with people who have confused hardness for strength, who have conceded to the belief that they’re superior, who imagine themselves the last bulwark against a broken age when they are really just protecting their own fragility.

Artists are called to something braver.

I guess what I am saying is, grow a pair.

Grow the courage to defend your wonder.

Grow the nerve to protect your curiosity..

Grow the quiet, unglamorous bravery it takes to remain open. 

Because the artists who change things are not the hardest ones in the crowd, they’re the ones still willing to sit with the noise and compose a new song.

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Creativity requires the courage to remain open.

If you’re an artist trying to protect your curiosity, reconnect with your voice, or move through creative doubt with greater clarity and purpose, I’d love to work with you.

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