self-confidence comes when you give yourself a chance at a life well-lived

'If they can do it, why can't I?'

I've been getting weirdly competitive as of late. Not in a masochistic way that thrives on tearing others down, nor in the blindly jealous way that spirals into a pity party. It’s more of an I-demand-a-seat-at-the-table kind of drive; not because I see an empty chair, but because I’ll earn it, even if it’s invitation-only. I want to show up.

It’s the first time—or at least the first time I can remember—seeing this side of myself. I'm someone who dreads competition, dismissing it as a desperate bid to be seen as the best. And if I’ve learned anything, it’s that “the best” is a mirage in a universe built on relativity. Your personal best could be someone's finish line as much as it could be someone's starting point. That perception kept me complacent with being just… good enough. Good enough to never sit at the bottom of the class, but never a merit student. Never failing a task, but never becoming an expert. Talented, but never breaking through. But what I didn't realize was that being “good enough” could only get me so far before it started to feel like I was decaying. bit. by. bit.

If I could recount the times my stomach sank whenever I scrolled pass an IG post of a twenty-something baddie who seemed to have it all—a creative job in the spotlight, a smoking-hot physique that clearly takes more than just a few because-I-feel-like-it morning runs, a lifestyle that makes you wonder how she has the time or energy for it all: social network, meditation, family dinners, home-cooked meals, rave festivals, calisthenics training—I could've run a full marathon by now.

Don't get me wrong. I know this kind of zest for life, this almost tangible energy field that oozes confidence, isn’t something you’re handed at birth. It's the product of showing up on days you'd rather lie down, of ugly-crying through work when it was reaching a boiling point, of repeated attempts to remind yourself I am enough, even when you feel like a sack of potatoes. Because you know that's how you learn to trust yourself. And from trust, eventually, comes confidence.

In reality, my 'good-enough' mindset isn't giving me the substance I need to build self-trust. If anything, it has been sabotaging every opportunity that might allow me to get better. A better income, if only I weren't so afraid to send that application email that proves I'm qualified. A better body image, if only I survived the imaginary side-eyes of gym bros long enough to push through a session instead of replaying reels on the “perfect” RDL form. A better relationship, if only I weren't so terrified of being abandoned again that I’d rather pull away before it could turn into something real.

Every single time, I've proven to myself that I've chosen complacency, not realizing that living in a state of half-there, half-there-not carves a cavity into my self-esteem, that it's a surrender of a life well-lived. And, to no one's surprise, every time it happened, I found myself back at the same question, wondering why it seemed like they had it better, why they could walk with a radiance that turns heads and stirs envy in the eyes. That loop of self-deprecation went on and on until one day, I asked differently:

If they can do it, why can't I?

What if being competitive isn't about becoming the best but about choosing to show up, to give yourself a chance at a life well-lived, simply because you deserve it?

Whatever it is that you feel physically drawn to pursuing—a job that allows you to feel seen, a healthy body with stable cortisol levels, a hobby that nourishes your playful side—you owe it to yourself to have it, or at least try. So I did.

I planned a weekly workout routine for the first time, rotating between strength training, cardio, and yoga to promote muscle growth, endurance, and mobility. I also cut down on alcohol and increased my water intake to curb emotional eating.

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I pitched my first freelance article to a digital news site, started a Substack to learn from like-minded writers, and eventually stumbled upon one that inspired this personal essay, along with so many others that later materialised into my podcast.

And I know this is the part of the essay where you anticipate the grand result reveal, like every Hollywood blockbuster, where the protagonist gets their happy ending after conquering the big obstacle.

But the truth is: there isn't always a glittering result to reveal.

I haven’t become that girl who makes heads turn and stirs envy in the eyes, nor have I landed a creative job in the spotlight with an aspirational lifestyle (not that my introverted ass could handle the spotlight anyway). This isn't an I've-made-it-so-can-you story. This is simply the beginning.

If anything, I'd say I'm in the most defining stage: showing up when there's no trophy; making progress when there's no crowd. There's no confetti raining just because you keep showing up. And maybe that’s exactly why it’s the most defining stage of all. Sometimes, the life you want has to look boring from the outside before it starts to look like a happy ending.

The real trophy isn't the eulogy for your performance or the wins you can parade on social media. It's the internal validation that endures—the foundation of self-trust you’ve built brick by brick, filling the cavity carved by countless imaginary scenarios that gave you cold feet, by moments when words stuck on the tip of your tongue, by ghosts from the past that kept reminding you I’m not enough.

Self-confidence, in a way, is the shiny exterior of that self-trust. The sturdier the core, the brighter the shine. It's what holds you together, the prettier form of the one that once said you deserve a life well-lived and proceeded to act on it. And before you know it, your life begins to look exactly like it.