I Am Confident That I Am Afraid

I used to think confidence would arrive once I found the right career and got good at it.

Years ago, when I was running a restaurant, I had opened, I felt stuck. It was not doing what I had hoped, and I had ended up in a career that left me feeling unfulfilled and exhausted. I used to imagine who I would become if my circumstances changed. I wanted to feel like I was making a difference, work with amazing people, and feel fulfilled by what I was doing.

I had some pretty big ideas about the person I would become in that life. Surely, she would be confident. Surely, she would take every opportunity that came her way. Surely, once she finally got where she wanted to go, she would stop being so afraid of being seen trying.

Well, I have that life now.

And apparently, nobody informed my fear that we had arrived.

I became a therapist, and I love this work. I trust what I know, how I show up with clients, and my ability to recognize patterns and help people make sense of them. I get to collaborate with some of the coolest people. There are days when you could look at me and reasonably assume I am running on pure confidence and passion.

You would be missing some information.

Because I am also afraid.

There is a part of me that would like to start walking backward out of every new room I enter. When an opportunity asks me to stretch beyond what I already know I can do, that part would prefer that I politely decline. Speaking? Writing a book? Sharing more of my ideas where people can see them? That part has many concerns. And sometimes I listen, because it can be very convincing.

For a while, this confused me. I had found work I loved. I had become more confident. So why did putting myself out there still feel so exposing?

I think part of the answer is that confidence can grow at the same time fear does.

Becoming more capable often gives you access to bigger opportunities, and bigger opportunities tend to come with something your nervous system may have some opinions about: visibility. As you gain knowledge and find your footing, people notice what you can offer. They invite you into bigger rooms. You start considering opportunities you could only imagine before. Suddenly, more people might see what you do, hear what you think, or watch you try something new.

And there is risk in that.

You could get something wrong where other people can see it. You could let someone down. You could let yourself down. Of course that can bring up fear. But the fear does not necessarily mean you are less confident than you thought. Sometimes it simply means there is more at stake now.

My confidence is responding to what I have learned. My fear is responding to what might happen when more people see me use it.

Both can be true at the same time.

Internal Family Systems, or IFS, gives me useful language for understanding this because it invites us to become curious about the different responses we can hold inside us. One part of me knows I am capable, and it has years of experience to draw from. Another part is watching very carefully for what might happen if I take a risk and it goes badly.

It asks, What if I blow this? What if people expect more than I can give? What if they see me fail?

That fear may push me to prepare endlessly, put something off, or say no before anyone has the chance to judge the result. Sometimes I get frustrated with it. But when I slow down, I can also get curious about what it is so worried might happen.

Sometimes our experiences teach us that criticism, disappointment, or getting something wrong will cost us more than we can bear. A new opportunity can stir up that old expectation, even when we now have more skill, more support, and a greater ability to recover. The fear may still be responding to an older version of the risk.

When that backward-walking feeling shows up, I am learning to pause long enough to ask myself a few things:

What do I know about myself and my abilities today?

What does this fearful part think could happen if I say yes?

What support or preparation would make this step more manageable?

And if fear did not have to make the whole decision, what would I choose?

Sometimes the answer is that I need more preparation. Sometimes I need support. Sometimes I need a smaller first step.

Maybe I agree to speak but ask more questions about the audience first. Maybe I share the idea before I have polished it into absolute submission. Maybe I enter the room knowing I do not have to predict every question I might be asked.

Listening to fear does not mean I have to obey it, and moving forward does not require me to pretend it is not there. I can listen to the concern and still decide that another part of me gets a vote.

My confident part does not believe nothing can go wrong. It knows things can go wrong. It also knows I can respond if they do.

So, when the fearful part gets the keys and starts driving the bus, I am learning to remind it:

I have something to offer. I can prepare. I can ask for help. I can learn. And if I make a mistake where people can see it, I will still be me.

The life I dreamed about is here. The part of me that is afraid would still like it to be an actual dream that we can wake up from.

We are working on a compromise.

For now, we are walking into the room together.

Maybe that is part of what growth looks like. Not reaching a place where fear finally disappears but learning to understand what it is trying to protect, respond to it with curiosity and compassion, and discover that we can still move toward the life we want. Therapy can offer a space to explore those parts of ourselves—not so we can get rid of them, but so fear no longer has to make every decision for us.

Written By: Jessica Sahoury, MA, LMFTA