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Owning My Value:
There’s a voice that’s been with me for as long as I can remember.
It shows up right when I have something to say. Right when I start to feel momentum. Right before I hit “send.”
“Who do you think you are?”
I didn’t know there was a name for it until recently. Impostor syndrome. Apparently, it’s been around…forever. And apparently loads of high-achieving, competent, functioning adults deal with it.
Good to know.
Would’ve been helpful information about 15 years ago.
When I realized this “thing” had a name, I also realized it had been living in my head rent-free for most of my adult life. And because I cope with discomfort through humor, I decided to name mine.
His name is David.
I don’t know why he’s male. He just is. He feels like that overly confident guy in the corner who has absolutely no credentials but a lot of opinions.
David questions my work ethic.
David tells me I just got lucky.
David whispers that someone is eventually going to figure out I don’t belong in whatever room I’m standing in.
And the worst part?
For years, I believed him.
I let that voice push my self-worth into the basement and lock the door. Actually, that’s not accurate. It shoved me into a wrestling ring with myself and sat back eating popcorn while I threw punches I didn’t need to throw.
Some of those punches landed. Hard.
Every time I had an idea, I’d second-guess it.
Every time I worked myself into exhaustion, I’d still wonder if it was enough.
And when someone else questioned me, even gently, I took it as confirmation. See? David was right.
What I didn’t realize at the time was how much of this had nothing to do with talent or ability and everything to do with fear. Fear of being seen. Fear of being judged. Fear of not measuring up to whatever invisible standard I’d created in my head.
It’s wild how convincing that internal voice can be.
At some point, though, I started noticing something. The loudest criticism wasn’t coming from the outside. It was coming from me.
Or more accurately, from my ego.
Not the flashy ego. The defensive one.
The ego that says, “Don’t put yourself out there. If you don’t try, you can’t fail.”
That ego rerouted me constantly. Like a broken GPS that insists you make a U-turn every time you get close to something meaningful.
I can’t count how many times I held back in rooms where I had something valuable to say.
I can’t count how many times I downplayed my own effort.
I thought I was being humble.
I was actually being afraid.
And here’s the part that changed everything.
I got tired.
Tired of waiting for someone else to validate me.
Tired of looking around for reassurance.
Tired of hoping someone would step in and say, “You’re good. You’re ready. You belong.”
Because sometimes they don’t.
Sometimes the people you think will always have your back are busy living their own lives.
So I started experimenting with something uncomfortable: backing myself.
Giving myself the high five.
Letting myself be proud before anyone else clapped.
It felt awkward at first. Almost arrogant. David had a lot to say about it.
But slowly, something shifted.
I stopped giving so much weight to what other people might think.
Not in a reckless way. In a grounded way.
I started asking that voice a different question.
“What are you trying to protect me from?”
And the answer, almost every time, was rejection.
Embarrassment.
Not being chosen.
Fear isn’t evil. It’s protective.
But it’s also dramatic.
Fear will convince you that sending an email is equivalent to stepping into traffic.
It will convince you that posting your thoughts online is a life-threatening event.
It exaggerates.
Once I saw that, David got smaller.
He still shows up. I don’t think he’s ever fully leaving. But he doesn’t get the driver’s seat anymore.
Now when he starts talking, I don’t panic. I listen. Sometimes he’s pointing out something useful. Prepare more. Think it through. Slow down.
That’s helpful.
But when he crosses the line into, “You don’t deserve this.” I interrupt him.
I don’t need to silence him completely.
I just need to remember who’s actually in charge.
And that’s me.
I’m not the impostor in my life anymore.
I’m the author.
That doesn’t mean I have it all figured out. It doesn’t mean the voice is gone. It just means I’m done letting it narrate my story.
If you have a David—or whatever yours is named—maybe the goal isn’t to destroy it.
Maybe it’s to shrink it down to its actual size.
Maybe it’s to stop treating every doubtful thought like it’s a fact.
Maybe it’s to realize that the loudest voice in your head doesn’t automatically get to be the most truthful one.
I still have moments where I question myself.
But now, I have moments where I choose myself.
And that’s new.
And that’s enough.
~
Enjoyed this? Read Traci’s previous Elephant Journal article:
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