Crippling Self-doubt Every Time You Hit Publish on Medium. Me Too.
Your inner critic is a total rhubarb — don’t let it get the last word
In the cold light of day
You know that moment when you’re cry-eating? Your nose gushes snot and drips onto your plate, along with your tears. Self-doubt accumulates in puddles. And you feel even sadder.
And even though you’re alone, you still find yourself scanning the room to check if anyone saw this gross mess. Snot and tears continue spilling out from you. Then, in a totally-not-habitual-manner, you wipe your nose on your sleeve.
But it’s okay. You used your left sleeve. You basically don’t use your left arm, coz you’re right-handed — that’s the one to keep clean, right. Smart.
Well, that was me, yesterday.
Brene, on Dare to Lead —
What is the soul of a creative life?
“Embracing messiness.”
— Debbie Millman
Even though I write about self-development, I’m still super messy. I get scared, disappointed and sad like the rest of us. Sometimes my inner rhubarb has tiny, little, assassin-like rhubarb children. They swarm like Twitter bots and spam you faster than David Perlmutter can highlight your article. That’s Jedi-speed for the uninitiated.
You’re at your desk, writing your best life when — whomp! The assassins strike.
You’ve been rhubarbed. Criticism flying everywhere — ‘You’re irrelevant. No one cares what you have to say. You’re wasting your time.’
The criticism lands about as well as cold, wet, chicky nuggies hitting you square in the face. Ugh.
And yeah, I know.
Self-development is unsexy. Especially this side of the Atlantic. We hide our feelings in our muscles. Or fat. Either’s good. But it’s my story. And I get fulfilment from something I write being helpful — even to just one person.
A story of success (not what you would expect)
Last week a reader left a comment, on my article about overcoming loneliness. In the article, I shared a story my father used to tell me as a child. She wrote, complimenting me on the meaning and beauty of it and asking permission to reshare.
Now, I’m just another person on here telling their story.
Sure, I’ve worn many hats so far. From police officer to teacher and now, a writer and researcher. I’ve picked up some skills and knowledge in life. My reader though — she’s a clinical psychologist. You see, she saw value in my article for her clients.
My little story gave value. Wow. That's success. Here’s what she didn’t know when she left her comment.
I’d recently lost my father.
And this story, small and silly as it is, is precious to me. Her comment did two things.
Firstly, I was deeply moved. Her words reached down into the loneliness of my still-raw grief. It brought some peace, gentle, like dawn-breaking and the warmth of first light that whispers across your face.
Secondly, it was honouring to me and my fathers legacy — especially asking permission. My love of storytelling, 100% came from my Dad.
He was gifted.
Making camp in the good vibes
Just in writing that last paragraph, I’m reminded of the beauty and meaning in what I do.
And I’m thankful. I hang out in that space and try to remember why I’m doing this. Then I keep showing up — that’s what this article is.
Even if it goes unrecognised. Even when those mental rhubarbs, mob me. Goons!
You see, I’m not aiming to be some perfectionist-I-have-all-the-answers, poster-child for self-development. No way. I’m just looking to be one step better than yesterday and to serve the people I love, along with my community.
Which includes you, me beauties! (noun. Cornish, affectionate term of endearment).
Raising a (non-alcoholic) glass to everyone out here showing up — despite the fear and self-doubt, and to my father out there somewhere in the constellation skies.