Most people who didn’t know me before eighth grade would probably never believe I was painfully shy. I remember standing in front of a small group of kids at the end of my elementary school days when I was twelve. I had something to share, but my words choked in my throat before I could finish half a sentence. I ran from the room, crying. I can still feel the pain of that moment, even though it happened more than three decades ago.
A few years later, the shy kid was gone, replaced by someone louder and more obnoxious. Unconsciously, I had convinced myself that confidence meant being the biggest voice in the room. During that time, I lost the filter that kept me from saying too much. I’d like to say I grew out of that phase, but honestly, some of that behavior stuck around. I embarrass my wife at regular intervals in public.
Some of that brashness has been useful. It’s made me less afraid of getting up in front of large groups without caving to anxiety. But confidence is a tricky thing.
We’ve all seen the people who think confidence means telling everyone else to shut up because they always have the right answer. That’s not confidence. That’s arrogance and pride, dressed up to look like certainty.
As I get older, I’ve come to see that real confidence has nothing to do with volume or bravado. It’s not about being the loudest voice in the room or the one who can crack the best joke. Real confidence is quieter than that.
I think about a friend of mine who passed away recently. Professionally, he was a nuclear physicist — probably the smartest person in the room most of the time. Yet he rarely spoke. When he did, you knew it was worth listening to. It wasn’t because he carried himself with an air of self-importance. It was because what he said was always thoughtful. He seemed happier to listen, even when he didn’t agree with what he was hearing.
I think about that a lot in my work. I’m a mid-career entrepreneur now, and I spend most days feeling like I’m trying to build something that matters. The weight of it can feel overwhelming, especially when that old instinct creeps back in: the need to prove that I’m not just some guy who quit his job to freelance in his basement.
A few weeks ago, I sent out a proposal to a client for a custom software solution. At first, I felt good about it. But when they pushed back and said it was too expensive, I almost cut my price in half just to get the project and keep them happy.
The old, familiar voice in me wanted to cave. I wanted them to like me. I wanted the work. But I didn’t give in. I took a breath, stood by the proposal, and decided to be okay with not being okay.
They didn’t approve it. I didn’t get the business. That stung. In a weird way, though, it boosted my confidence. It was a kind of validation that my work is worth it. If I’m busy filling my schedule with projects that undervalue me, I’ll never have the time or energy for the ones that see what I bring.
It’s not always easy to hold that line, and I know there’s some privilege in being able to say no. But I’m learning that real confidence is about more than making everyone else happy. It’s about learning to stand by what matters to you.
When I was younger, I thought confidence was about never letting anyone see that you were nervous or scared. I thought it was about always knowing what to do. I’m not sure that kind of confidence even exists. If it does, I don’t want it anymore.
The truth is, I’m scared a lot. I’m scared of failing my family. Scared of not being the provider they need. Scared that, in spite of my best efforts, clients won’t come and I’ll have to go crawling back to work for someone else to make ends meet. Scared that the work I do won’t ever really matter.
Old voice. Same story.
There’s a difference now that’s been growing these last few months. I’m learning to see that fear not as a reason to stay quiet or to sink into self-doubt. I see it as a sign that I care, and as proof that I’m not just performing. I’m trying. And that, I think, is what real confidence looks like. Not the absence of fear, but the willingness to keep going even when it shows up.
I’m still learning. There are days when I’m the loudest voice in the room, mostly because I’m trying to cover up my own feelings of inadequacy. And there are days when I can sit in a crowded room and feel completely at home just listening.
I don’t think I’ll ever be done learning the difference between false bravado and real confidence. I don’t think any of us ever will be. But I do know that the kind of confidence I’m trying to grow into now is the kind that doesn’t need to shout to be heard. It’s the kind that trusts the work, trusts the effort, and trusts the people I love to remind me that I’m not measured by how loud I am.
My youngest still loves to show me what he’s building in Minecraft. There’s something in the way he runs into the room, bursting with excitement, that reminds me what real confidence looks like. He doesn’t care if it’s perfect. He doesn’t care if it’s impressive. He just wants to show me what he made. He wants me to see it.
I think that’s what I’m learning to do for myself, too. To be proud of what I’ve built, even if it’s not perfect. To stand in the mess and the noise and say, this is mine, and I’m still learning.
And that is enough.
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