The Weight of ‘Not Good Enough’

Shattering the Illusion of Self-Doubt

Self-doubt isn’t a measure of my worth—it’s just a voice I no longer have to obey.

Presentation days are when everything I’ve learned and made sense of comes to life in a dialogue with those willing to listen and engage. These are my moments of truth. Without the chance to share and validate my thoughts with an audience, my learning feels incomplete—like knowledge that exists in isolation, benefiting no one, not even me.

Those days are key to making my work truly meaningful because the ultimate goal of the presentation is to inspire and mobilize—turning ideas into action and insight into impact.

But every time I prepare for a presentation, a voice in my head whispers, You’re not good enough. It’s not loud or dramatic—it’s subtle, woven into the fabric of my daily life. It lingers in the quiet moments, patient and persistent, waiting for me to notice, to believe it.

For years, I thought this voice was part of what made me successful. That it kept me sharp, kept me from becoming complacent. If I just worked harder, proved myself more, maybe—just maybe—the voice would go silent. But it never did. Because it never wanted proof. It wanted control.

Sometimes, this voice won’t let me sleep. It haunts me, grips me with fear. I cry. Sometimes, I even throw up. And as I grow older, I’ve become acutely aware of how my body absorbs its weight—how deeply it manifests, how relentlessly it takes its toll.

But here’s what I’m learning: not all self-doubt is the enemy. In small doses, it pushes me to refine my thinking, to improve, to stay open to growth. Healthy self-doubt asks, “How can I do this better?” But there’s another kind—the kind that paralyzes, that shrinks me, that tells me I’ll never be enough. Toxic self-doubt doesn’t want growth; it wants control. And that’s the voice I no longer have to listen to.

This doubt is not me. It’s a pattern. A habit. A survival instinct that has outlived its purpose. And just because it’s familiar doesn’t mean it’s true.

So I’m trying something new. Instead of fighting the voice, I acknowledge it. I see you. I know what you’re trying to do. But I get to decide what I listen to now.

Because the truth is, I don’t need to prove that I’m good enough. I just need to show up. To share what I know. To trust that the person I’ve become is already worthy.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s always been enough.

ADRIANA