If self-doubt were an Olympic sport, I could medal. I mean, I think I could. It depends on the competition. Maybe I wouldn’t even compete. On second thought, I’ll sit this one out.
While I constantly beat myself up about everything under the sun, something jarred me out of my self-judging recently.
I’m beginning my seventh year as a writer and photographer for a local television station. I work alongside some talented people and enjoy reading their reports and seeing their stellar photos. I typically feel as though I don’t belong, even though I do have years of experience and they have been nothing but kind to me and treat me as an equal, which I certainly am not.
But recently I was looking for an article in the archives and started reading something that I really liked. I admired the writer’s style and the photos peppered throughout the article and tried to guess who the author might be. Then I reached the end, the byline.
The author was me.
Until this point, every story I wrote for this job stressed me out. With usually an hour or two allotted for turnaround time, I worried I wasn’t telling the story well enough, that I misrepresented the sporting event I observed entirely, that I just wasn’t all that good at what I do.
Even when a writer I hold in high regard told me he enjoyed my reporting, I was flattered but figured he was just being kind.
Now, when I sit down to write or edit photos, I focus on telling the story to the best of my ability and leave it at that. Maybe I won’t wow anyone but myself, and maybe not for years down the road, but sometimes that’s enough.