Trying to Impress

November 26th, 2024

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Nearly two years ago, three friends and I founded The Welcoming Way.

Since that time, we’ve tried to build a successful business. We launched different products. We read books on growing a business. We worked with coaches and advisors.

While we’ve enjoyed our time and learned a lot, when it comes to growing a business, we have not yet been “successful” in the financial sense.

Recently, I began a new marketing class, hired a new mentor, joined a money mastermind, all with the hope of making Welcoming Way valuable and fiscally sustainable.

Then last night, I sat on the couch glaring at a book. It was a book about my money recommended by my new mentor.

One voice in my head said, “Read it.”

Another voice said, “I don’t want to.”

The first voice said, “READ IT.”

The second voice said, “No.”

A bit of panic began to set in. “Wow,” I thought. “This is a surprising amount of fear about whether or not to read a book.”

I picked up my journal and began to ask questions. I turned toward the fear and asked what it was afraid of.

“That book will make me feel stupid. Like a failure. It will tell me what to do, as if it’s sooooo easy to make money. It will make me feel like an idiot. I don’t want to feel like an idiot.”

Even as I write this now, I have a lump in my throat.

I could really feel the ache of the one in me who is tired of failing. Who compares herself to others and comes up short.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” she said. “I want to stop.”

And here came the first voice again, the one who wanted to read the book: “NO. YOU ALWAYS DO THIS. THE MOMENT THINGS GET TOO HARD, YOU QUIT. And then we end up back at square one. I’m not doing this again. Pick up the G*D D*MN BOOK.”

Fury, it seemed. But upon closer examination, more fear.

i'm scared

So I turned to that voice, and I asked again, “What are you afraid of?”

Immediately I saw two images, one from an imagined future and one from the past.

Image #1

A future scene from a gathering I’m planning to attend with accomplished entrepreneurs. I imagine them asking me about my business and me feeling deeply inferior.

In this imagination, I’m fumbling around for words to try to make my work sound more impressive than I believe it is. I imagine their eyes glazing over and beginning to look around the room for someone who can actually string a few confident sentences together.

Image #2

A memory of a mentor and friend saying “I used to often hear people say how ‘Leah Pearlman helped me so much’, and now I never hear about you anymore.” She added, “it could be that I’m just not hearing about it.” She was just reporting her experience, but what I heard was “You’re lost. You’re a failure.”

When she said it, my heart sank, because my interpretation of her words were confirmation of my own fears. I had been telling myself that not-succeeding was actually a symptom of growth. “Who needs traditional success?” I’d say. “I have peace instead.” But it wasn’t totally true. I wanted peace and success.

These two images, together, answered my question:

I’m afraid that without demonstrable success,

I will be left out, left behind, unworthy, unsatisfied, and unloved.

Success has many definitions. It could be professional but at times I’ve also tried to impress with wisdom, presence, insightfulness, or generosity. All of this trying is born of the same root, though: belief in my own inadequacy.

After these two images came to mind, I laid down and closed my eyes. I consciously chose to imagine that future scene, the one with people I admire. I looked around the imaginary room and actually felt into the possibility that I might be one of the least accomplished people there; at least by certain criteria.

I let myself feel how it would be to show up without trying to pretend a single thing.

At first, I kind of wanted to throw up. I felt heat in my cheeks, “what if someone asks what I do?” I felt a shrinking-back feeling in my gut, “maybe they won’t see me.” I felt a yearning-burning in my heart, “if only I could belong.”

All of this is so familiar to me.

Surrounded by high-end coaches.
Working at Facebook in the early years.
Ecstatic dancing in the Bay Area.
Volunteering at non-profits.
Majoring in Computer Science.
Summer camp.
Middle School.

Wherever I’ve been, I’ve been able to weave a story of inferiority and not-belonging.

I let the fear come up, the sadness, the ache. I held the one in me who has so often felt so unworthy. I let her cry.

It has been so lonely for her, at times. Not because there was anything wrong with her, but because, in the midst of her pain, another voice in me would tell her to “Shut up.” “No one likes an insecure cry baby.” “Pull it together.” “Pretend.”

Of course, I now see that bully-voice was scared too, trying its best to help me fit in. But the bully-voice only reinforced that “I am not ok as I am. I need to be what others value in order to be loved.”

As I held myself in this way, letting the feelings surface, a question popped in: “Who would I be without all these games?”

Instantly, I knew the answer. I love Welcoming. This is who I am.

Two years ago, three friends and I began sharing the Welcoming Way, and not from fear, but from love.

The fear may show up sometimes – the comparison, the insecurity – as it did last night. But that doesn’t mean I’m doing anything wrong.

It just means I’ve forgotten what I’m really up to, and why. And when that happens, I always have Welcoming to bring me back home.