Every time I’ve gotten in the car this week I’ve wanted to pull the lever that shoots the wiper fluid onto my windshield. It’s not that my windshield is super dirty – it’s that the fluid system works, and I’m the one that fixed it.

It would be hard to overstate the joy I feel in having successfully completed this repair. It had been months since this feature on my car had worked properly, and I’d spent a few hundred dollars getting it repaired last year. I didn’t want to pay for another repair, but I live in a sunny, salty climate and, like with so many things, I hadn’t realized how often I use the windshield cleaner until it stopped working.

The repair itself ended up not being too complicated, and the details aren’t important. What is important is that a line was blurred and crossed, and I broke free of one of the limiting molds I’ve been living in. You see, I never thought of myself as someone who fixed things on cars. I was over 40 before I learned how ridiculously easy it is to change out a broken headlight. I’ve always considered cars as something that needs to be fixed by an expert, by someone who knows.

I’m reminded now that it’s all a spectrum, that where we fall is fluid and changeable. We can learn little pieces of things without needing to learn it all, and those little pieces can end up being a big deal. And when we stretch our definitions of who we are and what kinds of things we do or don’t do, whole worlds open up. A new sense of confidence and possibility rushes in.

It’s not about discovering a passion for repairing cars (although it could be). It’s about realizing our capacity for learning new things, not settling on fixed notions of what we don’t know. It’s about setting aside yes and no and embracing the curious spirit of maybe. Maybe you can fix your car. Maybe you can bake that cake. Maybe you can learn the splits. Maybe you can leave your house and drive away to someplace you’ve never been…