We talk about fear of failure all the bloody time don’t we?

Like….

• I’d love to start a business, BUT what if it doesn’t work?
• I want to write a book, BUT what if nobody buys it?
• I want to put myself out there more, BUT what if nobody’s interested?
• I want to change my career, BUT what if I regret it?
• I want to launch this thing, BUT what if it flops?

We bundle all of those spiralling thoughts together, stick a neat little FEAR OF FAILURE label on them and assume that’s the only problem we need to solve.

But I’m not convinced it always is.

Imagine for a minute that you could try the ‘thing’ completely anonymously.

As in…. Nobody would see the Instagram post that got three likes.

Nobody would know you launched something and hardly anyone bought it.

Nobody would know you applied for the opportunity and didn’t get it.

Nobody would know you started dating again and it went spectacularly tits up.

Nobody would know you started the business and six months later decided you fucking hated it.

Nobody would know you even tried.

Would failing feel quite so terrifying then?

Maybe.

But I suspect for many of us, it would be considerably less so.

Because perhaps what we’re actually scared of isn’t: What if I try and it doesn’t work?

It’s more about: What if everyone watches me try and then it doesn’t work?

Those are two very different fears in my opinion.

One is about the outcome.

The other is about what we think that outcome will say about us.

Before you can be seen trying, you have to be seen wanting

This is the bit I think we massively underestimate.

Because there’s something incredibly vulnerable about admitting you really bloody want something.

• I want the business.
• I want the promotion.
• I want to write the book.
• I want to speak on that stage.
• I want the relationship.
• I want to make more money.
• I want people to buy what I’ve created.
• I want a bigger life than the one I’m living now.

The second you say any of that out loud, other people now know exactly what you want.

Which means that, now…. there’s something to lose.

If you never admit you wanted the opportunity, you can pretend you weren’t particularly bothered when you don’t get it.

If you never launch the offer, nobody can reject it.

If you never write the book, you can remain the one who could definitely write a book one day.

If you never properly go for the business, you can keep believing it would have been wildly successful if you’d really tried.

Potential is wonderfully safe like that.

Nobody can criticise what you never tried.

And we can live there in that space for years.

Potential protects your identity

This is where I think it gets particularly interesting for high-achieving women.

Because, if you’ve spent decades being the competent one, the capable one, the woman who gets shit done, you don’t just have a reputation for being good at things.

It becomes an integral part of your identity.

You know what you’re doing.

People come to you for answers.

You have experience and credibility.

You know the rules of the game.

And then you decide to reinvent yourself…. Suddenly, you’re a beginner again.

Urgh.

Now there are things you don’t know.

You ask questions you think you should know the answer to.

You try something and discover you’re not immediately brilliant at it.

You launch something and realise that creating something great and getting people to actually buy the bloody thing are two entirely different skills.

You put yourself forward and get ignored.

You create something you’re incredibly proud of and somebody comes back with a page full of changes.

It can be brutal for an identity built around: I’m really good at stuff.

Because reinvention sometimes requires you to say:

Yes, I am really fucking good at what I know. AND I’m willing to come over here and be a bit shit at something new for a while.

That’s really uncomfortable.

But it’s also unavoidable if you want the next level.

Starting again publicly takes a different kind of courage

We talk a lot about having the courage to start again, but we talk much less about the courage required to let other people watch you start again.

Because starting again privately is one thing.

Doing it publicly is something else entirely.

Now your old colleagues might see.

Your family might see.

Your ex might see. Or his new partner.

People in your old industry might see.

People in your new industry might see.

That woman on Instagram who always seems to have her shit together might see.

And before you know it, you’ve appointed an entire imaginary judging panel to oversee your life.

Except most of them don’t even know they’re on it.

They’re sitting at home watching Netflix, scrolling their phones and wondering whether they can be arsed to put the washing away.

They are not thinking about you nearly as much as you imagine they are.

We’re all the main character in our own lives.

To most other people, we’re an occasional supporting character at best.

I find that incredibly freeing, because if you’re making decisions based on what “people” might think, it’s worth getting very specific.

Which people?

Who exactly are these people whose hypothetical opinion gets to determine what you do with your actual life?

And when the hell did they get a vote?

Perfectionism can be a very respectable hiding place

Sometimes perfectionism genuinely comes from high standards. Absolutely.

Yes, sometimes excellent really does matter.

But sometimes?

Perfectionism is fear in a very expensive mask.

Because if it’s not ready yet, you don’t have to release it.

If you need another qualification first, you don’t have to begin.

If the website needs another tweak, you don’t have to send anyone there.

If you need a bigger audience before you sell something, you don’t have to risk nobody buying it.

If the idea needs another six months of development, nobody can reject it today.

Perfect can stay private.

Perfect can remain in the future.

Perfect can’t be judged because perfect never has to leave the bloody house.

Real things do.

Real things get opinions.

Real things get misunderstood.

Real things get ignored.

Real things get rejected.

Real things sometimes fail.

And also, real things sometimes fucking fly.

You don’t get access to one possibility without accepting the existence of the other.

Failure and humiliation are not the same thing

This is important because failure says: The thing didn’t work.

Humiliation says: The fact that the thing didn’t work has somehow reduced my value.

Only, we add that second part ourselves. Despite it being untrue BS.

You can launch something and it doesn’t sell.

It’s just information. Data. Feedback.

Apply for something and not get it.

Information.

Change career and realise you bloody hate it.

Data.

Create an offer nobody particularly wants.

Really useful feedback, actually.

None of those automatically means:

I’m embarrassing.

Everyone thinks I’m a failure.

I was stupid to even try.

That’s a made up story.

And quite often we write it on behalf of an audience who hasn’t said any of those things.

You can’t reinvent yourself entirely in private

This is why identity design isn’t simply about understanding who you want to be.

Because you can journal about her forever. You can visualise her. Create the vision board.

Work out what she believes, what she wants, how she dresses, what her standards are and what she will no longer tolerate.

I bloody love all that stuff, don’t get me wrong.

But eventually?

She has to leave the fucking house.

She has to be seen making the decision.

She has to say no.

Or yes.

Ask for the money.

Wear the thing.

Leave the relationship.

Launch the business.

Apply for the opportunity.

Post the post.

Book the room.

Tell somebody what she actually wants.

That’s when identity design becomes real.

Not when you understand who you want to be, but when your behaviour starts creating evidence that this is who you are now.

And some of that evidence will be messy.

Good.

At least messy means you’re actually doing something.

What are you really protecting?

So perhaps instead of asking yourself:

What am I scared will fail?

Try asking:

What am I scared of people seeing me try to do?

And then go a little further.

Who are you scared will see it?

What are you imagining they’ll think?

What do you believe their judgement would mean about you?

What identity or reputation are you trying to protect?

Because maybe you’re not scared the business won’t work.

Maybe you’re scared your old colleagues will watch you promote it.

Maybe you’re not scared of dating again.

Maybe you’re scared of people knowing you want love.

Maybe you’re not scared of writing.

Maybe you’re scared of calling yourself a writer before somebody else gives you permission.

Maybe you’re not scared of changing your life.

Maybe you’re scared that the people who were comfortable with the old version of you will watch you do it.

And then there’s one more question:

Is protecting yourself from their possible judgement costing you more than their judgement ever could?

Because there’s a cost to not trying too.

It’s just quieter.

Nobody sends a rejection email when you don’t apply.

Nobody ignores the thing you never launch.

Nobody laughs at the idea you never tell them about.

Nothing happens.

And that’s precisely the problem.

Six months pass.

Then a year.

Then five.

And you’re still thinking about the life you might have lived while keeping your potential pristine and safely wrapped in plastic.

Fuck that.

Maybe the goal isn’t to eliminate fear.

Maybe the goal is to become willing to let them see you try.

Let them see you learn.

Let them see you change direction.

Let them see version one before you’ve perfected version twenty.

Let them see you care about something enough to risk not getting it.

Let them think you’ve lost the plot if they want to.

They get an opinion.

They don’t get a vote on your life.

Potential might be safe.

But you can’t build a life inside it.

Listen to The Reinvention Era

I go much deeper into this conversation in this week’s episode of EP156: The Reinvention Era: Are You Scared of Failure… or Being Seen Trying?