It's time to dive into the Creativity Killers — partly because I said I would (discipline activated), but mostly because they are burrowing into every corner of my life.

Imposter Syndrome has become a buzzword online, but it’s hardly new. Google will tell you it’s a psychological pattern where people doubt their achievements and fear being exposed as “frauds.” Apparently, it shows up a lot in high-achievers, though anyone can get it. It was first identified in the 1970s by psychologists studying high-achieving women. (I’m not even shocked. I could easily go off on a tangent about the historical policing of women’s competence, but let’s behave… for now.)

Still, here's the uncomfortable truth: The reason I wasn't writing wasn't because I lacked ideas or discipline — I was scared. Not of the blank page. Also, not of the work. But I was petrified of being seen.

The moment I tried to share drafts, ideas, vulnerable reflections, photos of my early training, videos of me boxing badly — anything that showed my inner wiring or early attempts — I would freeze. My chest tightened, my fingers hovered over the publish button, and suddenly the whole world felt too close. I convinced myself that exposing my process would expose me. And once people saw the unpolished version — the uncertainty, the evolving opinions, the messy, struggling beginnings — they’d decide I wasn’t a “real writer” or a “real boxer”.

Imposter syndrome tightened its grip.

Where It Started

The Fraud Feeling in My Writing

For months, I’ve been circling writing like it’s a wild animal that might bite if I made the wrong move. I write privately, constantly, obsessively… but when it comes to hitting publish, everything in me tenses up.

I rewrite paragraphs until they lose their soul.
I delay posts because a sentence feels “off.”
I avoid sharing opinions because “what if people disagree?”
I hide the messy drafts because “what if this proves I’m not as good as I think I am?”

It’s exhausting. Not the writing — the hiding.

I didn't realise fear had grown roots. That it was quietly nudging me to stay small, silent, and unprovocative. That showing the raw, unfiltered parts of my writing journey felt too vulnerable, too revealing, too… honest.

I had no idea I was doing the same thing somewhere else in my life — a place where you'd think vulnerability wouldn't even cross my mind.

The Plot Twist: I Was Doing it in Boxing Too

Someone recently commented on an Instagram post of mine that they would like to see more. More training. More boxing. More of what I actually do — not just the neat, “safe” references that I'm a boxer.

After the panic died down, I went through my old footage. Not the polished sessions. The early stuff — the chaotic footwork, the frozen shoulders, zero rhythm, the “what exactly were my limbs doing?” clips.

And then it hit me like a jab I didn’t see coming: I’ve never shared any of this.

I love boxing, I found it because of cancer. It rebuilt my life. And yet... I'd shared almost none of the journey.

I told myself it was because the footage wasn’t good enough. But that was nonsense. The truth? I didn't want people seeing me looking like a beginner.

And the starkest fear was this: I love boxing so much that I didn't want anyone to steal that joy from me. I didn’t want to hear, “You? A boxer? Are you sure?”

Different worlds. Same fear. If they see the unpolished version, they’ll decide I don’t belong.

But wait! There's more!

Because life has a sense of humour, Imposter Syndrome didn't stop with writing and boxing. Oh, no. It decided to hitch a ride into the biggest project of my life right now — Winning the Fight.

Would you believe, I even questioned whether I had any right to build this programme? Yes, I lived through cancer. But that didn’t magically make me feel qualified. If anything, it made me more hesitant.

When my doctor told me I was one of the few patients she'd seen come out stronger after cancer, and that I should be helping others, I panicked more than I celebrated. Suddenly, there were expectations. Suddenly, people were watching. Suddenly, my inner fraud alarm was screaming again.

Why Imposter Syndrome Kills Creativity (and Confidence)

It doesn’t just whisper doubts — it drains momentum, blurs identity, and disconnects you from your growth.

It ties your identity to perfection.
A rough paragraph = “not a real writer.”
A bad training clip = “not a real boxer.”

It erases your achievements.
I survived cancer. I fight. I write. I show up.
Yet, my brain still tried to discount all of it.

It stops you from sharing your journey.
No early writing.
No early training.
No progress story.

It replaces visibility with self-protection.
And while self-protection feels noble, it slowly suffocates your expression.

What's Really Behind This Fear

Being seen learning feels dangerous.
Whether it’s writing or boxing, beginnings expose us.

My “resilient one” identity made vulnerability feel like failure.
After cancer (and many other traumas in my life), I felt pressure to always look strong, capable, and unshakeable.

Perfectionism disguised itself as ambition.
I wasn’t aiming high — I was avoiding criticism.

Juggling multiple passions increased the pressure.
Writer and boxer and cancer-survivorship coach?
Great. Now I get to doubt myself from every angle.

The Moment I Finally Saw the Pattern

Scrolling through my notes and camera roll, comparing the two, the truth hit me in the face. I wasn’t failing. I was hiding. Hiding drafts. Hiding footage. Hiding the versions of me that were still becoming.

And the irony? My whole message — in writing, boxing, life — is about fighting back, owning your story, and showing your transformation, not just your highlight reel.

Yet, I wasn’t letting myself live that truth.

How I’m Fighting Back (One Cringe at a Time)

This is still a work in progress, but these shifts are helping:

Sharing things before they’re perfect.
A rough paragraph. A sloppy jab. A messy thought. The behind-the-scenes photo where I'm sweating and my posture is questionable. I can cringe. I just can't hide.

Separating identity from skill level.
I’m a writer because I write.
I’m a boxer because I train.
Done.

Keeping a “proof file”.
Screenshots, comments, fight notes, tiny wins — receipts for the days my brain gets dramatic.

Practising imperfect visibility.
Weekly vulnerability. No filters, no polish, no performance.

Naming the fear.
Saying, “I feel like a fraud posting this,” out loud instantly collapses the illusion.

Rewriting the narrative.
From “they’ll judge me” to “they’ll witness my becoming.”

The Truth I’m Claiming Now

If the entry fee of being a writer or a boxer is perfection, then none of us qualify. But if the price is showing up — messy, raw, half-formed, brave in the smallest way — then I’m in.

Because the version of me that feels like an imposter — the imperfect one, the learning one, the vulnerable one — is the one who’s actually living, growing, writing, fighting, and daring to be seen.

And that's the whole point.