Owning the Echo
written in conversation with Lets Get Unstuck's Owning My Value: Turning Imposter Syndrome Into My Ally.
There’s a voice that still wakes up before I do. Not the kind that screams. The kind that hums under everything I build. It waits till I start to feel proud, then says, quiet and slick, You sure you earned this?
That’s the echo.
It’s been with me longer than most people I’ve loved.
It doesn’t care how many times I’ve rebuilt. Doesn’t care what I’ve written, survived, or proven. It waits till I start believing I belong. Then it slides in, polite as ever, just to remind me what it thinks I am.
For years, I mistook it for truth.
The Early Static
I grew up thinking worth was something handed to you. Like a badge, or a key, or an invite you had to earn by being the kind of person people clap for.
When no one clapped, I assumed I just hadn’t bled enough.
That mindset follows you. Into your work. Into your relationships. Into the way you talk to yourself before you open your mouth in a room full of people smarter, louder, richer, cleaner than you.
Every time I got close to something real—publishing, love, peace—the echo showed up. Sometimes it sounded like my own voice. Sometimes like my father’s. Sometimes like God on a bad radio frequency.
Who do you think you are?
And for a long time, I didn’t have an answer.
“The imposter doesn’t show up when you’re faking it — it shows up when you’re finally growing.”
The Mask That Fit Too Well
The funny thing about imposter syndrome is that it can make you really good at performing. You over-prepare. You over-deliver. You outwork everyone just to keep them from seeing you sweat.
And when they finally notice you, it doesn’t feel like a win. It feels like a setup. Like any second, someone’s going to pull the curtain back and find the scared kid with the shaking hands.
So you keep the mask on.
You make it fit.
You start confusing your performance for your identity.
There’s a certain high in it. The adrenaline of pretending. The illusion of control. But eventually, the weight of pretending starts to feel like rust building under your skin. You can’t move right. You can’t breathe deep. You start mistaking stillness for safety.
And that’s when the echo does its best work.
It whispers that the quiet means failure. That slowing down means you’re slipping. That if you aren’t grinding, you’re disappearing.
That lie took me years to unlearn.
The Break
Mine didn’t come in one big moment of clarity. It came in pieces—after long nights when I was too tired to lie to myself. After good people looked me in the eye and said, “You’re allowed to rest.” After I realized that no one was coming to rescue me from my own reflection.
I remember sitting at a desk one night, the kind of night where the air hums like it’s trying to keep you awake. I had a full inbox, a deadline, and that old echo gnawing at the back of my skull.
It said, You don’t belong here.
I looked at the screen and whispered back, Then why do you keep following me?
Silence.
That was the first time I realized the voice wasn’t my enemy.
It was my evidence.
Proof that I was stepping past the limits it knew.
“The echo doesn’t show up when you’re failing. It shows up when you’re expanding.”
The Echo Is a Signal
That whisper that says you’re not ready? It’s fear wearing your old name. It’s your nervous system still calibrated to smallness.
But comfort’s a trap. Growth’s the real thing. And growth feels exactly like danger to the parts of you that still think you don’t deserve it.
That’s why the imposter voice doesn’t vanish when you “make it.” It just changes outfits. It starts asking different questions.
You think you can hold this much success?
You think you’re the one to carry this story?
You think you can love without losing yourself again?
The answer, most days, is I don’t know.
But I keep going anyway.
That’s ownership.
Not certainty. Movement.
Owning It, Not Fighting It
I stopped trying to silence the echo.
Now, when it starts up, I let it talk. I listen for what it’s really saying. Usually, it’s pointing at something I care about. Something that matters enough to scare me.
The echo says, You don’t belong on that stage.
Translation: You’re about to do something that will change you.
The echo says, You’re not qualified.
Translation: You’re about to learn fast enough to be dangerous.
The echo says, You’re not ready.
Translation: You’re no longer waiting on permission.
That’s how you flip it. You turn the imposter into a compass. Every whisper of doubt is a sign you’re standing in a new room.
You don’t need to kick the door down.
You just need to keep walking through it.
“Owning your worth means you stop apologizing for your existence.”
The Cost of Worth
No one tells you that learning to own your value will cost you your old identity.
It’s not just about confidence. It’s about grief. You have to let go of the version of yourself that only knew survival.
I had to bury that man. The one who thought every good thing came with a catch. The one who’d rather sabotage himself first than risk someone else doing it later.
He served me once. He kept me alive. But he couldn’t take me any further.
Owning your worth means you stop apologizing for your existence. It means you quit trying to convince people who are committed to misunderstanding you. It means you build something that doesn’t crumble just because no one claps.
And it means you start giving yourself the kind of grace you used to beg for.
What I Know Now
The echo still talks. It always will. But it doesn’t run the show anymore.
I don’t see it as a flaw. It’s the hum that keeps me human. It keeps me honest, grounded, curious. It reminds me that even after everything, I’m still growing into myself.
I used to think confidence meant the absence of doubt.
Now I know it’s the decision to walk with it.
The imposter whispers, You’re not enough.
I smile and say, Maybe not yet.
Then I get back to work.
Speaking Anyway
People think confidence is loud. It’s not. It’s steady.
It’s the quiet kind that doesn’t need to prove itself anymore.
These days, when someone says my name in a way that sounds like it belongs, I don’t flinch. I just nod and keep building. Because I’ve learned that belonging isn’t given, it’s grown. One truth at a time.
And when the echo shows up—because it always does—I don’t drown it out. I let it play, low and steady, like background music in a life that finally feels like mine.
That voice doesn’t bury me anymore.
It builds me.
Brick by brick. Word by word.
If it’s whispering in your ear too, maybe that’s a good sign.
Means you’re outgrowing the cage you were handed.
Means you’re walking toward a version of yourself that doesn’t need to ask for permission anymore.
So don’t fight the echo.
Own it.
Let it teach you how to speak anyway.
End Note:
This piece was written in conversation with
Her words lit the match.
This is what burned through after.
 | A guest post by
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Don’t fight the echo.. let it teach you
Fantastic post Mark. So many truths in each paragraph
Thanks for sharing it
As always, Reading your posts is a pleasure. Thank you for putting it in those words 🌻