fake it till you make it

A few months ago, a friend and I stayed up late talking. We got on the topic of confidence, and I had always admired the confidence he carried in himself. He asked me if I wanted to know his big secret to it all.

He smiled at me and just said, “Fake it till you make it, baby.”

I rolled my eyes.

I had heard it said to me over and over again, and I always thought of it as, well, bullshit. I mean, what good was faking something if it only benefitted the way the rest of the world saw you instead of how you saw yourself? Didn’t that kind of defeat the purpose of self confidence?

So, naturally, I gave it a shot.

I’ve always struggled with my self confidence. Like everyone else, I have a list of insecurities longer than the one of Taylor Swift’s exes. I think Lil Jon may have wrote Get Low about me and my self-esteem. You know when DJ Casper said "How low can you go?" in the Cha Cha Slide? I felt that.

The truth is...everything makes me nervous. Even when I don’t show it, I’ve got about a million things running through my head. When I walk anywhere, all I can think about is the way my body looks when it moves. I convince myself that everyone is staring at me and passing some sort of judgement, and I always have my fingers crossed hoping it’s good. I worry way too much about what other people think, and I let it get to me. I obsess over it.

I’ll be the first to admit that I have a lot of work to do on myself. I’ll also be the first to admit that shit’s hard! It’s even harder to fake it; to put on a one woman show where the main character is a bundle of nerves with wide eyes, masked with self-deprecating jokes and red lipstick.

So, I started small: making eye contact. I looked at everyone. I smiled at everyone. I said hi to people I had only met once in my freshman philosophy class. When I walked places, I would feel my head dip down. I’d catch myself digging through my backpack or purse for nothing, just to have something for my hands to do other than shake. Then, I’d take a deep breath, close my backpack, and force myself to lift my chin up. I’d literally close my eyes and shake my head a few times to try and clear the clouds of anxiety in my head. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t.

Then I took it up a couple notches. I wore those pants that never made it past the front door because I thought people would think I looked weird in them. I raised my hand in a class I never spoke in. I told the girl in my study abroad group that always had cute shoes that I wanted to be her friend (we’re getting coffee next week!). Anytime I saw something beautiful in someone else, I spoke it as often as I could. When someone complimented me, I didn’t assume they were lying to make me feel better. I genuinely smiled and thanked them. I told my uber driver he was hot? (That was a little questionable [was I sober? maybe.]

Then I really kicked it up. I walked up to the first cute guy I saw at a party in Austin and asked if he wanted to kiss me. He did. Turns out, this guy was a swedish foreign exchange student that had only been in the U.S. for 9 days. I was the first American girl he’s ever kissed. What can I say ladies, I’ve done more for this country than our president has. Right after it happened I looked back at my friends who were just staring at me with their jaws dropped, and I was like, “Oh my god…did I just do that? Who am I?” Then, the creepy old man that always came into where I worked called me “sweetheart” for the hundredth time in that same, demeaning tone, and I looked him in the eye and told him, “My name is Emily. You can call me that, or you can leave”. He hasn’t called me sweetheart since. I let myself go on a date. I reached for his hand. I talked to my parents about things I’d kept pent up for years. I found my voice in situations that I would have kept quiet in.

I’m highlighting the better parts of this journey, but I assure you there were some very ugly moments. There still is. There was lots of crying in the car and nights I’d look in the mirror and tell myself I was ugly and unlovable, picking myself apart until all that was left were a pair of defeated eyes looking back at me. I’d constantly tell myself I wasn’t enough for me and the people around me, and that no matter how much I tried, I wasn’t fooling anyone, especially not myself.

Then I started to realize something incredible: somewhere along the way, I had stopped faking it. I didn’t even notice I wasn’t faking it, I was just doing what I had practiced and it became more natural to me. I mentally rolled my eyes again, thinking back to the conversation I had late that night. He was right.

Here’s the thing: growing isn’t all affirmation and candle lit bubblebaths; it’s the person you used to be, fighting to hold onto who you were, because moving on means losing them. Losing a part of yourself can feel like losing a friend. Despite the unhealthy aspects, who you were is still more comfortable right now than who you’re going to be. We’re stuck in this spot that doesn’t work for us anymore, but it still feels natural and safe. Letting go of that is scary, and I’m still learning how to.

I know I make a lot of shoe metaphors, but it’s like trading in your favorite pair of sneakers for a new pair of hiking boots. The sneakers are beat up and worn out, covered in scuffs and holes, but they’ve molded to fit you so well. They’ve been with you through puddles and mud, gone to new places, and taken you to where you need to be. They’re like Old Reliable. Then there’s these hiking boots. They’re clean and new and all shiny, but walking in them gives you blisters like none other. In the morning, you’re going to want to put on those sneakers because they’re comfy and don’t hurt, but you’re going on a hike and you’ll never make it up the mountain in those raggedy things. See where I’m going with this?

A wise woman named Miley Cyrus once said:

There's always gonna be another mountain
I'm always gonna wanna make it move
Always gonna be an uphill battle
Sometimes I'm gonna have to lose
Ain't about how fast I get there
Ain't about what's waiting on the other side
It's the climb

I always thought about the climb as perseverance and the idea of taking the punches and still trudging on, but I think there’s a silver lining in that climb that can be really rewarding. Confidence is like an adrenaline rush. It’s the best kind of drug; you get a hit of it and you’re like “Whoa. That felt good.” and you chase after that feeling. Sure, you don’t just smile at someone once and suddenly have the gonads to call up Scarlett Johanson and ask her to prom, but it does give you that little extra push to put yourself out there again, even if it doesn’t work out. Maybe the climb is less about the promised view at the top, and more about the rush of slowly reaching new heights along the way.

Breaking in shoes isn’t comfortable. Breaking in a new version of yourself isn’t comfortable either. It hurts, and there’s growing pains, and sometimes all you want to do is toss those boots in the trash and put on the sneakers; however, those blisters are still there - but this time you’re not getting anything out of them.

Alright, I’ll quit it with the shoes.

Self-confidence is a bitch. Growing within yourself is hard (to say the least). It’s exhausting when you have nothing to take from, but still find it somewhere in yourself to try again. I am so far from a finished product. Actually, I’ll never be finished, and that’s a good thing. Anyone who thinks they’re a finished project just took a break on the hike to catch their breath and eat a clif bar.

I am continuously being inspired by my friends and the people around me to keep pushing myself to do better and work harder. Let yourself be inspired, and when those blisters start forming, remember it’s worth it: to get a smile in return, a break from yourself, or even just a taste of the view.

Be gentle with yourself, and celebrate every tiny victory you have along the way.

Cheers to you and those damn hiking boots.

-Em.