Sometimes I open a blank page and immediately want to close it. Because in the back of my head, there’s this loud, ugly thought:
“Why even try? Everyone else is better than you.”
I’ll scroll Twitter or Substack, see someone drop a perfect essay or a crisp thread, and it feels like they’re running a marathon while I’m still tying my shoes. Their words glow. Mine? They look like scribbles.
And then the shame spiral starts.
But here’s what I’ve learned: every writer I admire once sat in this same shame spiral. They didn’t climb out by being “better.” They climbed out by showing up anyway.
The lie your brain tells you
You see their finished draft. You don’t see their messy Google Docs, deleted lines, or nights staring at the cursor.
Your brain is wired to obsess over flaws — so of course you only notice what’s “wrong” with your work.
Skill is built, not gifted. Every “better” writer you know just has more practice reps than you.
That voice in your head isn’t the truth. It’s just fear in a bad disguise.
Tiny shifts that helped me keep writing
1. Write to figure things out, not to impress.
When I stopped aiming for brilliance and just started writing to understand my own thoughts, the words came easier.
2. Publish smaller, faster.
A tweet. A 100-word post. A half-thought newsletter. Shipping tiny things taught me the world doesn’t end if my work isn’t perfect.
3. Save receipts of wins.
Every compliment, every “this helped me,” every line I wrote that I actually liked — I keep them in a folder. When doubt screams, I open it.
4. Don’t expect the first draft to be magic.
It’s not supposed to be. Drafting is discovery. Editing is craft.
How I reframe comparison
Instead of: “They’re better than me.”
I try:
“They’re further along. That means it’s possible.”
“I’m looking at their highlight reel, not their bloopers.”
“My only job is to write today. Not to be the best.”
Here’s the truth nobody admits
The difference between the writers you admire and you?
They wrote while they felt like frauds.
They hit publish while scared.
They kept going when it felt pointless.
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