For years, I treated expertise as a kind of social armour. If I had read enough, trained consistently enough, or formed a polished enough opinion, I believed I could enter any conversation with authority. The internet rewards that performance. It favours the confident take, the definitive guide, and the person who can turn a complicated subject into five clean points before the coffee gets cold.
I have started to distrust that posture. There is value in knowledge, discipline and proper research, but pretending to have mastered everything makes life narrower. Becoming a curious beginner has made me more observant, more willing to change my mind, and far less embarrassed by the phrase “I don’t know.” That shift has affected how I write, exercise, dress, eat, work and participate in culture.
Expert culture often confuses fluency with wisdom. Someone who can speak smoothly about politics, fashion or fitness may understand the subject deeply, or they may simply know how to sound certain. Social media makes the difference difficult to spot. A strong opinion travels faster than a careful one, especially when it arrives with a dramatic caption and a confident headshot.
I have played that game myself. I have written as if every observation needed to become a final verdict. The trouble is that a fixed identity as “the informed person” creates pressure to defend yesterday’s opinion, even when new evidence or lived experience has complicated it. Curiosity offers a better role: I can be informed without pretending to be finished.
A beginner pays attention because the details have not become invisible yet. When I return to an unfamiliar subject, I notice terminology, rituals and small choices that an experienced person might dismiss as obvious. That mindset has improved my writing because I am less interested in demonstrating that I belong and more interested in explaining what I actually see.
This is especially useful in food and culinary culture. Walking through Melbourne’s Queen Victoria Market, I can appreciate the confidence of long-time shoppers while still noticing how produce is displayed, how stallholders build trust and how different communities influence what ends up on Australian plates. Curiosity turns a meal into a story rather than a simple score out of ten.
Fitness culture can make beginners feel as if they need a complete philosophy before they take the first step. There are endless systems, specialist programmes and people promising the perfect routine. I used to think progress required finding the one method that would settle every question. Now I am more interested in consistency, recovery and paying attention to what my body is telling me.
That means treating exercise as an ongoing experiment. A walk along Sydney’s coastal paths, a basic strength session or a short mobility routine still counts when it is repeated with care. I do not need to perform the identity of a fitness expert to become stronger. I need to learn how sleep, food, stress and training interact, then adjust without turning every missed session into a moral failure.
An expert persona tends to turn conversation into a stage. You wait for an opening to display what you know, correct someone’s wording or deliver the sharpest interpretation. A beginner’s mindset changes the rhythm. You listen for context, ask better follow-ups and allow another person’s experience to remain larger than your assumptions about it.
That matters in discussions about politics and social issues, where certainty can become a shortcut around empathy. It is possible to care about a principle while staying open to the ways it affects people differently. A conversation in a Brisbane café, a workplace debate in Perth or a family argument over Sunday lunch may reveal more than an online argument designed for applause.
Curiosity is not an excuse to remain permanently uncommitted. Research, reading and open-mindedness should eventually lead to action. I can investigate men’s style and still get dressed. I can study personal branding and still publish an imperfect piece. I can learn about nutrition while making a decent dinner instead of waiting for an immaculate meal plan.
The best learning is active and slightly uncomfortable. I recently became more interested in the process of developing a voice than in presenting a flawless personal brand. Reflective work such as Mary Ellen Bellusci’s essays reminds me that thoughtfulness does not need to sound inflated. A clear perspective can develop through attention, revision and honest uncertainty.
Living in Australia makes adaptability practical rather than theoretical. The cost of living changes what people buy, cook and prioritise. A restaurant review cannot ignore rent, transport, wages or the price of groceries. The local market shapes taste: a family in Adelaide, a student in Canberra and a hospitality worker in Darwin may all have different ideas about what counts as affordable pleasure.
There is also a particular Australian suspicion of people who take themselves too seriously. Confidence is welcome, but grand self-importance can be quickly punctured by a mate, a colleague or a dry comment at the barbecue. I do not want to flatten ambition into false modesty. I want to remain capable of learning in public, laughing at my mistakes and respecting people who know more than I do.
The most useful benefit is creative. When I stop trying to sound definitive, I can follow an interesting thread for longer. A question about sneakers may lead to labour, identity and advertising. A discussion about protein may lead to class, convenience and the Australian supermarket aisle. A film or song can open into a wider conversation about memory, politics and belonging.
There is also relief in releasing the need to protect a reputation I have invented. Being a curious beginner means I can change my mind without treating that change as humiliation. It gives me permission to read outside my usual interests, learn from people with different backgrounds and make work that is exploratory rather than perfectly branded. Knowledge still matters, but curiosity keeps it alive.
Curiosity becomes useful when it has a few practical structures. Without them, “I am still learning” can become a comfortable way to avoid making decisions. These habits help me remain open while still producing work, building fitness and participating in ordinary life.
The point is not to collect hobbies or turn every interest into a side hustle. It is to maintain contact with the world as it is, rather than forcing everything through an established personal brand. A beginner notices when the map no longer matches the territory.
I still want to become skilled. I still value experts who do serious work and share it responsibly. The difference is that I no longer see expertise as a costume I must wear in every room. I can be a writer learning about culture, a man improving his health, a customer figuring out what makes a meal memorable and a citizen trying to understand issues that refuse easy answers.
That is the identity I want to bring to NexxtLevelUp: engaged, opinionated and unfinished. Follow along, share the questions that are shaping your own interests, and bring a little beginner’s attention to the next conversation, workout, meal or idea.