I’ve always found it awkward to share my views publicly. It feels self-important, especially if only a handful of people ever read them. But I do it anyway, because every once in a while someone finds my stories useful—and because I learn by writing them.

When I went through Y Combinator last year, I realized how often founders have to do cringy things. Overnight, I became a “thought leader” on LinkedIn and Twitter to make my cold emails more credible. I created multiple inboxes so I could reach out to as many prospects as possible. When fundraising, I groveled for money. Founders do these things all the time, yet it still felt unnatural to me. Over the holidays, I spent a lot of time thinking about why.

It turns out that cringe is part of getting good at anything. Most endeavors that matter—starting a company, leading a research team, or writing a decent essay—require doing it badly at first in front of people who will judge you. That’s just the price of admission. It is obvious, but only when I fully experienced its purpose and usefulness did I feel in addition to understand the importance.

Cringe happens when we imagine how others see us, then cringe on their behalf. It becomes dangerous if it leads us to quit. But it is also be a signal that we’re pushing ourselves. If you’re never embarrassed, you’re probably not taking enough risks. Awkwardness is a sign of growth.

I’m embarrassed writing this, but now I’m also proud of that embarrassment. It means I’m trying something new. And if you feel the same way about something you’re working on, I hope you’ll learn to be proud too. None of us can reach our potential without fumbling around in public from time to time.

Until I can write with Paul Graham’s clarity, I’ll probably feel self-conscious every time I publish anything. And that’s exactly why I’ll keep doing it.