It’s embarrassing, honestly. Still.
Every, Single, Time.
I stare at the damn “Publish” button like it might explode.
I’ve been doing this for years now, writing, sharing, showing up, but it’s weird how some things just… stick. Like gum on your shoe. You think you’ve scraped it off, nope. Still there. Still whispering, “You’re not the real thing.”
Sometimes I tell myself it’s not imposter syndrome. Just being careful. Responsible. Polished, even.
Other times, usually when I’m honest, it’s fear. And not the kind of fear you shout about on a stage or use in a motivational quote. It’s quieter. More like… a slow drip. One that pools in your stomach and waits.
“This isn’t good enough.”
“They’ve probably heard this before, better.”
“What if this post is the one that makes everyone realize I’m not actually good at this?”
I’ve deleted things five seconds before going live. Not because they were bad. But because they were mine. Too mine.
There was this one post I wrote last winter. Cold day. Wet socks. I’d just come back from a walk that was supposed to clear my head but only made it messier. I sat down, typed a few lines about burnout, how it’s not always dramatic, sometimes it’s just not caring about anything, and the words felt too… naked.
I almost didn’t publish it.
I was afraid someone from my old job might read it. Or someone from high school. Or no one at all, which sometimes feels worse.
I posted it anyway. Sloppy edits. Rambling metaphors. Way too many em dashes.
And then, hours later, messages. Not a flood, but enough. One person said, “This made me cry. Thank you.”
And I felt two things.
Relief.
And guilt.
Because part of me still believes that in order to be helpful, I have to be fixed. Resolved. Done.
But I’m not.
God, I’m not.
People say things like “Just own your voice!” and “Be confident in your story!” And I get it. I really do. But what if your voice feels shaky and your story is still happening?
Sometimes I think the online space is full of people yelling from the top of the mountain, pretending they didn’t cry the whole way up. I don’t want to be that person.
I’d rather sit halfway up and say, “It’s steep, huh?”
There’s something holy about saying the thing before it’s perfect.
Actually, scratch that. Before you’re perfect.
And I know that probably breaks every rule of personal branding and SEO and authority positioning and whatever else people are preaching this week.
But I don’t care.
I don’t trust people who never flinch.
I flinch constantly.
I hesitate before every send.
Reread posts like I’m trying to find the flaw before someone else does.
I imagine critics that probably aren’t even real.
Then I imagine friends who are quietly rooting for me.
That’s usually what tips me over.
A memory. A person. A reminder that I’m not writing for algorithms or gurus.
I’m writing for the version of me that needed someone to say, “You’re not crazy. This is hard. And you’re doing okay.”
That’s who I write for.
Not the guy with the six-figure funnel or the woman with the perfect camera angle and the energy of twelve golden retrievers.
Not the whisper in my head that says, “Play it safe. Make it shinier. Add more proof.”
No.
I write for the tired version.
The one that needed less noise.
More real.
You know what’s wild though?
Some of the posts I was most unsure about, ones I wrote through clenched teeth or through foggy eyes, those are the ones that traveled.
The ones people bookmarked.
Sent to friends.
Quoted back to me months later.
And still. STILL.
Imposter syndrome shows up like clockwork.
Like it pays rent.
It doesn’t care about track record.
It doesn’t care how many times you’ve shown up, shared truth, helped people, earned trust.
It only cares that you’re trying again.
Because it hates effort. It thrives on pause. On second-guessing. On “maybe later.”
I wish I could tell you that after so many number of posts, it stops.
That your fingers stop shaking or your heart doesn’t race or that you stop wondering if you’re a fraud.
But, that’s not my truth.
My truth is messier. It’s emails I never sent. Drafts I never opened again. Moments I almost backed out and then didn’t, and was so glad I didn’t.
So if you’re reading this, maybe you’re sitting with your own post. Your own unshared draft. Your own “almost.”
I hope this finds you in that pause.
And maybe, just maybe, nudges you toward “send.”
You don’t need to be perfect. You don’t even need to be certain.
You just need to be brave for one second longer than your fear.
That’s what I try to do.
I still wrestle with imposter syndrome before every post.
But I hit publish anyway.
And maybe today, so do you.
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