It was a typical day at a Walmart in Alabama, and I was determined to shed my fast-paced Jersey girl tendencies. Instead of rushing through the aisles, I decided to take a more measured approach—until I reached the checkout lines. All were long, so I made my way to the self-checkout station. My practical partner, Alex, is a huge fan of these machines; he loves the speed, the independence, and the minimal human interaction. Personally, I prefer dealing with cashiers. They feel more like family to me.
Self-checkout and I have always had a rocky relationship. I try my best to be attentive, but I inevitably trigger the dreaded red light. Each time it happens, I feel a wave of anxiety wash over me—as if I’ve done something wrong.
For someone who has always strived for excellence—an A-student, team captain, and president—this sense of failure is overwhelming. You’d think I’d manage self-checkout better, but I often find myself floundering. Once, I scanned a bottle of wine, and the machine went haywire. Panic set in as I remembered that our county prohibits alcohol sales on Sundays.
This time, however, things seemed to be going smoothly—until the machine chimed, “There is an unauthorized item in the bagging area.”
“What?” I exclaimed, confused. “There’s nothing unauthorized! No wine! Today isn’t even Sunday!” My hands were on my hips, and I was ready to argue. Then I noticed it—a tube of Dora the Explorer toothpaste, wedged in the corner, not even mine.
Frustrated, I pushed it to the floor, thinking I could continue scanning. But the machine interpreted this as an act of defiance: “Please wait for assistance.”
“I don’t want to wait!” I protested, waving my hands as if that would somehow help. I felt a sense of injustice bubbling inside me. I was fighting against the machine’s absurdity, but in reality, I was grappling with years of mixed messages I had internalized.
You know the ones: Strive for perfection but stay authentic. Don’t seek attention but still shine. Share your truth, but only if it’s well-received.
Despite my efforts to complete the transaction, I was met with yet another obstacle: the coupon. “Drop coupon in slot,” it commanded. I complied, only to be met with a notice stating that coupons need cashier approval. The red light flashed once more, and tears nearly sprang to my eyes. But then, something unexpected happened: I smiled. I laughed. In that moment, I felt liberated from the pressure of trying too hard.
I realized I couldn’t win—neither with the self-checkout nor with the constant need to please others. When you discover you’re engaged in a futile struggle, surrender becomes your best option. This absurd machine had given me an invaluable gift: clarity. The realization that self-acceptance cannot be earned was freeing. I could finally stop running and recognize what had always been there.
When the clerk approached, she asked, “Did you drop a coupon in the slot?” with an accusatory tone. “Yes, I did,” I responded calmly. I reminded myself that she was simply doing her job; her tone didn’t have to affect me. I chose to release the pressure, allowing myself to be free. After resolving the issue, I walked out with my groceries, feeling as if the sky above had opened up.