The Silent Grip

Insecurity dressed up as competence

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I’ve learned (the hard way) that there’s a particular kind of insecurity that doesn’t look like insecurity. It looks like competence. Even typing that makes me wince because I know the cost.

I wonder if this sounds familiar? You’re capable, you’re reliable and you’re the one that people trust.

• You get shit done

• You hold it together

• You don’t make a fuss

From the outside, nothing seems wrong, you smile and get on with it. You don’t speak up and yet the voice in your head is getting louder and louder. There’s a constant hum that has become the soundtrack to your day.

A sense that you’re just about keeping up, that you’ve managed it so far. Today wasn’t the day anyone noticed.

It’s not dramatic and it doesn’t stop you functioning. Sometimes it doesn’t even have words.

It’s just there.

I remember these feelings so clearly. Having spent 20 years in a male dominated industry, the role I returned to after I had my second child seemed alien and I didn’t know where I fit any longer. I tried to power through.

I remember this most clearly in meetings. I’d walk in already slightly braced. No one had questioned me. No one had said anything, but I felt like I needed to prove I deserved to be there.

So I prepared more than necessary, I checked things twice and I chose my words carefully. Looking back, from the outside I probably looked confident. But inside, I was quietly scanning for the moment someone realised I didn’t know enough. That I’d finally been found out.

At the time, I thought if I just worked harder, smiled, gave my-self pep-talks that it would be okay. But it wasn’t okay, I wasn’t okay. Looking back, I can see how much effort went into holding it together. Crying in the toilets and pretending to be okay took a huge toll on me.

Do you recognise any of this in yourself?

In the moments before you speak.
When someone asks your opinion.
When you press send on an email.
When someone compliments you and you brush it away.

You keep going, you keep performing and you keep delivering, but no one sees the effort it takes to maintain that, because from the outside, you look completely fine.

Some days you are fine, but there’s something about that quiet hum of not feeling good enough that slowly becomes exhausting to carry.

Nothing is exactly falling apart, but the quiet cost of the holding, the bracing, the performing is something most women never say out loud.

I’ve created this space so we can do just that, recognise it, say it out loud and sit with it. If this feels like you, welcome, I’m so glad you’re here.