Be Confident, Chapter One

Doubt is dumb. I don’t like it. I don’t think that doubt is kind, and I definitely don’t think it cares about you. But then again, I think that’s what makes it doubt. Doubt is a tiny thief that secretly steals the beauty, the wonder, and the uniqueness inside.

Not only is doubt dumb, but it is also patient. Doubt waits. It doesn’t pressure you or give you any sense of urgency. It sits calmly. Like a cougar stalking its prey, doubt has no problem waiting. It likes to linger for the moment for fear that you might begin to believe that you are worthy and valuable.

Then, like clockwork, it recognizes when you’re about to take a step, make a change, and finally move in the direction you believe was made for you. It strikes. It reminds you of those stories some-one told you. It reminds you of that moment you failed. It reminds you about all those conversations you’ve had with yourself over the last few years, where in the end, doubt convinced you that you were just not as good as you thought you were.

Does that sound familiar? Does that feel familiar? That moment where you’re about to finally believe in yourself and, like a vapor, the belief just vanishes. I get it. I’ve been there, and I under-stand. It happens to me, too.

In 2017, a CEO reached out and hired me to speak at their annual leadership event. The event was for 500 sales professionals. Initially, I was ecstatic. It was an amazing opportunity.

I packed in a flurry, then hopped on the plane. As I sat in the cramped seat and tried to fend off the blizzard coming from the air conditioner, there was nothing but positivity on my mind. In that seat, I reviewed my notes with a smile.

I arrived at the event. Still feeling great, I strutted backstage. Then, right there, just when I was about to walk on the stage, I had one of those moments.

They chose the wrong person, I thought. I’m not a good fit. Sales professionals don’t want to hear about vulnerability. They don’t want to get into their feels and look at who they are. This is bad. This is a bad idea. I am not who I say I am. Doubt snuck in.

My chest tightened. My throat felt coarse. Suddenly, all the gumption I had on the plane and in the hotel room vanished.

Doubt has also reared its ugly head in my role as a husband. After a tough day at work, a challenging conversation with my kids, or a situation where I have wanted to share the not-so-proud moments with my wife, I can start off with the utmost confidence.

I’ve thought about what I’m going to say. I’ve processed my feelings, looked at both sides, and was ready to vulnerably share who I was, what I felt, and how I saw her. And then, I felt the knot in my throat. Don’t do it. She won’t believe you. She will leave. She will get mad. She … Again, doubt snuck in.

I have spent a large portion of my life believing the wrong story. Now, to be clear, it wasn’t intentional. It’s not as if I woke up one day and said, “You know what I’m going to do today? I’m going to live my life based on somebody else’s story of who I am.”

But doubt is devious. Doubt came in so stealthily that it took an intentional moment of reflection to realize I was living a life that wasn’t mine. There were moments when doubt, which had been so natural for so long, didn’t feel like me anymore.

I am not the person who lives

from a place of conviction, has assurance in my words, and then clams up with doubt right before a moment of opportunity to be vulnerable.

I am not the husband who, in the midst of working hard to build a marriage of trust and intimacy, panics when it comes to sharing his feelings. But that’s who doubt made me.

Doubt found a way to sneak in and take control because I believed the wrong story. I had not completed the cycle of putting the doubt to death and crafting a new narrative. And, for most of us, we are living the wrong story, too.

We are stuck in survival mode. Survival is a beautiful thing. Survival mode is the very thing that has kept many of us alive up to this point and has been the one thing allowing us to walk out of tricky situations.

I am not knocking survival, but I do not believe that living in a constant state of survival is sustainable. It is not how we are designed to live. Instead, I think we were created for freedom,connection, and intimacy. We were put on this earth to live a life of deep conviction. Holding fast to our deep-seated beliefs without wavering from the truth and beauty of who we are.

I didn’t always believe that I had the freedom to live a life of deep conviction or even know what my convictions were, and to be honest, it’s still something I work toward every day. I have spent a large portion of my life surviving.

For me, it wasn’t life or death. It wasn’t about making sure I could find something to eat or have a roof over my head. All those things were more than adequate in my life. Not only did I have everything I needed, but usually everything I wanted, materialistically. Yet, even with all those privileges, I still felt like something was missing.

I have longed my entire life, no matter my situation, where I lived, how many times I moved, where I spent Christmas, how many Tommy Hilfiger polos or colorful Express shirts I had, for something always missing from my life.

Again, I had food. I had a home. I had many folks who loved me and cared for me. But, more than any of that, I wanted to know that I mattered. I wanted to know that my voice mattered. Hell, let’s really say it. I wanted to be wanted.

When I look back at my childhood, I can recognize all the blessings I had, both materially and emotionally, but I can also pin-point a gap. There was a longing to be understood, to feel secure in my identity, and for my voice to be heard and valued. I wanted the inside of me to match the outside that everyone could see.

I felt a lack of consistency. The absence of opportunity to put down roots and have a sense of home left me feeling lost. I didn’t belong anywhere. It was as if I was floating through life.

Growing up, I felt like a shiny balloon sitting along a fence or a chair at a party. I was always in the room with the people I loved, but I felt like I was floating past everyone. No matter what I did, I was just out of anyone’s reach. They could see me, I could see them, but we couldn’t connect.

That led me to feel separate. Apart. There, but not really there. So, although I would get the connection-attempting comments like how nice I was or how fun it must be to have three different homes to go to, they could never actually reach me. I was missing something I so desperately longed for.

I ached to know that I was valuable for who I was, not just what I could do. I would dream about walking into a home that looked and felt like everyone else’s. I wanted to have traditions. I wanted to eat the same food at every holiday meal with the same people sitting around the table. And not because those things are the only way or the right way, but more than anything, I wanted consistency and predictability.

To be even more transparent, my childhood left me with my defenses at the ready. As an adult, I didn’t want to get caught off-guard again. Yet, I didn’t want to feel like I had to stay on guard all the time, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Soon, I understood I wanted a break. I wanted to believe that someone wanted to pursue me without me having to give an exorbitant amount of energy to them. It was in the middle of these thoughts, the little lies about who I was and what I needed to be loved, that doubt was born.

As I look back in moments of reflection, this is where I painted pictures in my mind that belonged to someone else, where I tookthe words told to me and about me and let them sit in the driver’s seat of my life. Where I let doubt take root and create a narrative for my worth and value.

When a well-meaning eight-year-old stared at me and said, “You can’t be on our team. You just moved here, and we have always played together.”

All I heard was, “You don’t belong here.”

When I was in sixth grade, a mom lovingly asked if I would like one hamburger or two. Yet, what I processed was, “You are a large kid and kind of chubby, and no one likes the chubby kid.”

Another time, a caring friend simply asked what exactly I did for work.

When I told them, they appeared shocked and exclaimed, “And people pay you how much for that?”

What I heard was, “You are fake and make up stories, then charge people too much money when they just need help.”

The simple act of a caring father who chose his career over rest sounded a lot like he was choosing work over me. When he was only trying to show how much he cared through provision, all I could hear was that I wasn’t important enough to be chosen first.

The simple praises of a well-intentioned boss consistently applauding me for all I could do and rarely for who I was sounded a lot like only my actions mattered, and who I was carried no value.

The simple direction of a church encouraging me to smile, clap, and always show my best side sounded a lot like there was no room for struggle, pain, or anything less than perfection.

Moments like these are where doubt forms in us. It’s where it has formed in me. The narratives in your head might sound a little different than mine, maybe even completely opposite.

Regardless, it’s possible to rewrite that narrative to one that is firmly planted in conviction. The stories we tell ourselves have led to the doubt we believe about ourselves.

Doubt lives in the longing. It lives in the wanting, the hoping, and the needing. In the wanting to be enough, in the hope of being known, and needing to belong.

Doubt has a way of feeling permanent. The more I discover, uncover, and dive into who I am, the more I begin to expose where doubt has made a home. And, once we’ve found the resident, we can start the eviction.