The look that says "of course it didn't work"
That's what i'm actually afraid of
The microphone is sitting on my desk. Sound dampeners mounted on the wall. The mixer I spent months researching just sitting there, plugged in, waiting. Everything I told myself I needed to start my podcast? I’ve been collecting it piece by piece since 2021.
What’s left is just me and the fear.
I’ve been good, really good, at collecting reasonable explanations for why the timing wasn’t right. I needed better equipment first. I needed clarity about what I wanted to say. I needed to feel more confident.
At some point, those reasons stopped being true and became excuses.
The shift was gradual. I’d spend weeks researching microphones, convinced that finding the perfect one was responsible. I watched tutorials on audio editing. Wrote notes about potential episodes, organizing them into folders I’d revisit but never act on.
Each step felt productive. Like I was moving forward. Each one let me believe I was heading toward starting without actually having to start.
I have everything now. The setup is professional. I know what I want to talk about. And confidence? That was never going to show up before I started. It only comes from doing the thing that scares you.
So here I am, staring at equipment that’s been ready longer than I’ve been willing to admit, finally naming what’s actually in the way.
The waiting room I built
My procrastination doesn’t look like textbook procrastination. It looks like being prepared and responsible. Like making sure every detail is handled before I begin.
I’ve gotten very good at that version.
First, I told myself I needed to understand the technical side. So I learned. Studied audio quality, compression, hosting platforms, and distribution.
Then I needed the right equipment. So I saved, researched, bought the mixer, microphone, interface, and dampeners. Piece by piece until the setup was professional.
Then I needed more clarity about my message. So I wrote outlines, brainstormed themes, and mapped out potential conversations. Pages of ideas I never recorded.
And somehow, years passed.
Each reason felt valid at the time. Each one gave me permission to not be ready yet. What I didn’t see was the pattern underneath.
I was building a waiting room and calling it preparation.
When voice feels different than words
Writing here has been vulnerable in ways I didn’t fully anticipate. Putting these thoughts where anyone can read them, knowing that some people who find their way here don’t actually have my best interests at heart. That’s been harder than I expected.
Sometimes, hitting publish feels almost physical, as if I’m giving something delicate to strangers, hoping they handle it with care.
But voice is different.
Text gives you distance. You can edit it, refine it, make it just right before anyone sees it. You can read it back to yourself and adjust anything that doesn’t sound the way you meant it. Control the pacing, the emphasis, every single word.
Voice is immediate.
It carries emotion you can’t fully control. Hesitation comes through whether you want it to or not. Uncertainty shows up in the pauses. Excitement changes your cadence. You can’t take back the way something lands when you’re speaking in real-time.
Voice is you without the buffer of perfect phrasing or time to think through how something sounds.
I think that’s what I’ve been afraid of. Not the content itself, but the intimacy of it. The way my voice would make everything feel more real, more exposed. The way people could hear me trying, hear me uncertain, hear me figuring it out as I go.
There’s something undeniable about hearing someone’s actual voice. It cuts through all the polish and lands directly. You can tell when someone believes what they’re saying. You can hear them reaching for language that doesn’t quite exist yet. You can feel the difference between performed confidence and genuine vulnerability.
Writing lets you hide a little.
Voice doesn’t.
And maybe that’s the point. Maybe the very thing that makes it terrifying is exactly what makes it worth doing.
The invisible resume I carry
This fear isn’t just about the podcast. It’s about something bigger I’ve been circling.
When I look at the people around me, I see clear markers of success. Titles, companies, degrees, accolades. Things you can point to that say “this person has accomplished something.”
I look at my own path and see a series of hard lessons.
Experiences that taught me discernment, boundaries, and emotional literacy. An ability to stay grounded when things fall apart. The capacity to love people without needing them to complete my story.
I carry what I call an invisible resume. Years of internal work that made me a better person, more self-aware, more whole. Skills that matter deeply but don’t come with credentials.
I know how to read a room and sense when someone’s words don’t align with their true feelings. I can hold space for complex ideas without forcing them into oversimplified explanations.
But there’s nothing external to show for it. No credential that says “this person has done the work.”
Some days, I wonder what any of it counts for.
Sometimes I hesitate to share what I’m working on because I feel vulnerable about being seen trying without having conventional success to show for it. When your history is a string of efforts that didn’t go as planned, even though each one provided valuable lessons.
I’m afraid that if this doesn’t work, people will look at me with that distinct expression.
The one that says “of course it didn’t”.
The one that isn’t even surprised.
That fear has kept me small in ways I’m only starting to recognize.
Starting this podcast means stepping into visibility without the safety net of conventional credentials. It means saying, “I have something worth listening to,” even when the proof isn’t obvious from the outside.
That terrifies me.
And I’m learning that the terror is not a stop sign.
What ended this month
I’m wrapping up a project at the end of January after months of effort. I deeply believed I was aligned with it, and gradually it became clear that the values I was orienting around weren’t the ones being enacted.
What struck me wasn’t the misalignment itself. People shift, priorities change. That happens.
What stood out to me was how clearly clarity came. There were surface-level reassurances that didn’t match what I was actually observing. Words that sounded “good” but felt inconsistent.
I’ve learned to pay attention to those moments. When someone keeps telling you everything is fine, but the actions tell a different story, that dissonance is information.
The gap between stated values and enacted values became too wide to ignore.
I’m taking the entire experience as information rather than failure. It helped me refine what I actually want to build and who I want to build alongside. I know now that I’m not suited for environments where there’s deception. That realization felt like all the clarity I ever needed.
One door closed. I’m choosing to see it as the kind that needed to.
“I’m learning to love people without needing them to complete my story.
The decision
I’m moving to the Bay Area.
That sentence carries more weight than it probably sounds like it should. It means selling my home, leaving the city I’ve lived in for years, walking away from everything familiar, and rebuilding in a place where I don’t have established roots.
Choosing possibility over comfort.
The work I want to build requires proximity and context. Ideas don’t grow in isolation, and being closer to the ecosystem matters for what I’m trying to create.
I need to be there.
But I’d be honest if I said this choice isn’t difficult. Some nights, I stay awake, questioning myself. I wonder if I’m showing bravery or acting recklessly.
Selling my home means letting go of the stability I worked hard to build. It means betting on a future that doesn’t yet exist.
And I’m also being intentional about finding a longer-term project role while I develop my own idea. I don’t feel pressure to rush my vision into funding or external validation. I want it to take shape carefully, from the inside out.
That requires patience. I’m still learning how to hold. The willingness to let it develop without forcing it into a timeline that feels more comfortable.
Staying whole in motion
The past month has been a whirlwind of movement. Visiting North Carolina, returning to the Bay Area, and going to Japan. Despite the constant movement, it has unexpectedly brought a sense of grounding.
There’s something about disrupting your routines that makes everything sharper. You notice things you stopped seeing. You pay attention differently when nothing is automatic.
But the movement also brings up questions I can usually ignore when I’m settled.
Am I making the right decision?
Am I trusting myself enough?
Am I confusing growth with risk?
I notice how easily my mind wants to measure my life by visible markers. How quickly it discounts the years of internal work that don’t come with accolades attached.
I’m practicing a different relationship with uncertainty. One where staying in motion while things remain unresolved isn’t a problem to solve but a state to inhabit.
What’s changing underneath
I’m not orienting my life around being chosen, understood, or validated by the people in front of me. That’s the shift I keep coming back to. The one that feels like the actual transformation happening beneath everything else.
I used to rely on others to see me clearly, understand my intentions, and validate my decisions. I would often hinge my self-worth on their approval or doubt, gauging myself by how they responded to me.
I’m learning to love without attaching my worth to the outcome.
I’m not waiting for someone to finally see me clearly or confirm that I was right to believe in them. I care. I invest. I show up honestly. But I’m staying whole while I do it.
When someone doesn’t see me the way I hoped they would, I don’t fall apart anymore. When a project doesn’t go the way I imagined, I don’t lose myself in disappointment. When doors close, I stay standing.
The most meaningful shift has been internal.
I’m practicing staying whole in motion. When people meet me now, I want it to be from that place. From wholeness, not from need.
That doesn’t make the uncertainty disappear. But it changes how I carry it. Changes what I’m willing to risk because I’m not risking my sense of self anymore. Just risking the outcome.
Starting this podcast is the next iteration of that practice.
Responsibility feels like
I know what my story holds.
I know the way I think, the questions I ask, the patterns I name can help people feel less alone in their own messy inner worlds. I’ve seen it happen in the responses I get to these letters. The messages from people who say, “I thought I was the only one who felt that way.”
I feel that as a responsibility paired with fear.
Voice holds significant power. It allows others to hear you process things live, without needing to sound perfectly clear. It holds honesty that doesn’t wait until everything is fully figured out.
The conversations I want to have aren’t the ones where I interview someone about their success story. They’re the ones where we sit in the middle of things together. Where uncertainty is welcome. Where we’re honest about what we don’t know yet.
I want to talk about what it’s like to build something when you’re not sure it will work. What it feels like to choose yourself when everyone’s watching. How you hold possibility and doubt simultaneously without collapsing into either one.
I want to have conversations that feel like what happens at 1am when someone finally tells you what they’re actually afraid of.
I’ve wanted to do this since 2021. The desire has been consistent even when the excuses were loud.
I’m not forcing it into a launch plan or a perfect timeline. I’m acknowledging that everything I said I needed is finally here. The equipment. The experience. The clarity about why this matters.
What’s left is the choice to stop hiding behind logistics and start showing up in my full voice.
That terrifies me.
And I’m doing it anyway.
When the excuses run out
This season hasn’t delivered neat answers. What it’s given me is a steadier relationship with my own judgment, even as things remain unresolved.
I understand myself more deeply than I ever have.
Still, there are moments when I measure myself against people around me and feel behind. I worry about the look that might follow if it doesn’t work.
But I’m learning that staying honest with myself, even when I’m afraid, is enough movement for now.
The microphone is sitting on my desk. The sound dampeners are ready. Everything I said I needed is here.
The season when all my excuses finally ran out feels both frightening and enlightening. It’s like standing at the edge of something I’ve been getting ready for without knowing it. The moment when I run out of reasons to delay and must confront the truth that I’m simply afraid.
There’s a strange kind of freedom in that.
When the excuses run out, what’s left is just the truth. You want to do this. You’re afraid. Neither of those facts alters the other.
You can want something and be terrified of it. You can know something matters and still question whether you’re capable. You can feel unprepared and do it anyway.
I don’t know whether my voice will reach the people who need to hear it or whether starting this podcast will feel like finally stepping into something that was always waiting.
What I do know is that the excuses have run out. What’s left is just the choice to start.
And maybe that’s the only prerequisite that actually matters.
The point isn’t to feel ready. It’s about recognizing the moment when staying in the waiting room stops serving you and becomes the obstacle itself.
I’m done waiting for confidence to arrive. I’m done collecting reasons to delay. I’m done building explanations for why now isn’t the right time.
The right time is when the excuses run out, and you’re left with just the fear and the wanting.
And you choose the wanting.
Until next time,
🖤 Joni @ The Rebirth Files
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