I’ve lost count of how many times someone has said they’re proud of me and I smiled, said thank you, and then went home feeling like i did something wrong . It’s not that I don’t appreciate it. It’s that something inside me doesn’t let those words land. I hear them, but they float right past me, like they’re meant for someone else. Someone who actually deserves them.
I’ve achieved things, sure. On paper, it looks like I’ve done well. There are checkmarks next to goals I once thought were impossible. But every time I get there, every time I reach one of those invisible milestones, there’s a voice in my head that whispers, “Yeah, but it’s not that big of a deal.” It never feels like enough. It never feels like mine.
Sometimes I think it’s because I never learned how to celebrate myself. I grew up believing that pride was dangerous, that the moment you started feeling good about yourself, you’d get too comfortable and fail. So I learned to brush off compliments, to shrink my joy so no one would think I was arrogant. Somewhere along the line, that became my default — don’t make a big deal out of anything, don’t believe the good things too much. Stay small, stay humble, stay invisible.
But staying small hurts.
It’s strange to look at your own life and feel detached from it. Like you’re watching someone else succeed, but you can’t quite convince yourself it’s actually you. I’ve done things I once prayed for, and yet, when they happened, it felt like it didn’t count. I told myself I just got lucky, or that anyone could have done it if they were in my place. I found ways to discredit every single thing that might have made me proud.
I think about how often I’ve moved the goalpost. When I was younger, I thought I’d finally feel confident once I hit a certain point — a grade, a job, a relationship, a number in the bank account. And each time I got there, I’d quietly tell myself, “Not this. Maybe the next thing.” There was always a next thing. There still is.
It’s exhausting to live like that. To be chasing something you already caught but refuse to believe you deserve.
Sometimes I scroll through old messages or pictures and see moments when I was genuinely happy — proud even. I’ll catch a glimpse of myself laughing with people I love or holding something I worked hard for, and it almost makes me sad. Because I can see that version of me trying to convince myself it’s okay to be proud, and I remember exactly how quickly that feeling faded.
I remember finishing something big once, something that took me months. Everyone around me celebrated. I smiled, I laughed, I thanked them, but when I went to bed that night, all I could think was, “It could have been better.” I replayed all the things I didn’t do right instead of letting myself rest in what I had done. That’s the part that nobody really sees — the quiet moments after the applause, when it’s just you and that familiar voice telling you it still wasn’t enough.
It’s not even about perfectionism sometimes. It’s deeper than that. It’s about not feeling worthy of good things. I’ve built a habit of expecting to be disappointed, so when something goes right, I don’t know what to do with it. It feels foreign, almost suspicious. Like, “Wait, this went well? Are you sure?”
I wonder how many of us live like that — half-present in our own happiness, unable to fully believe we earned it. It’s a kind of quiet self-sabotage that doesn’t look dramatic from the outside. You still smile, you still work hard, you still show up. But deep inside, there’s a part of you that never stops waiting for proof that you’re enough.
And no matter how much you do, you never find it.
There’s this memory that comes back to me sometimes. I was maybe twelve, and I won some small art competition at school. It wasn’t even a big deal, but I remember how happy I was when I saw my name on that little certificate. I ran home with it, bursting with excitement, and showed it to my parents. They smiled, said “That’s nice,” and then went back to what they were doing. It wasn’t their fault — they were busy, they didn’t know that moment would stick to me the way it did. But it did. I folded that paper and put it away, and I think that’s when I started learning how to downplay the things that made me happy.
Somewhere along the way, I decided it was safer not to expect validation. To beat others to it by invalidating myself first. So when I achieve something now, I do it automatically. I’ll say things like, “It wasn’t that hard,” or “I just got lucky,” before anyone else can say it. I protect myself from disappointment by giving it to myself first.
The irony is, people often look at me and assume I’m confident. I seem like I’ve got it together. I’ve become good at playing that role — the capable one, the one who can handle things, the one who’s fine. I keep that version of me on display because it’s easier than explaining how hollow it can feel behind the surface. How strange it is to live in a body that does good things but a mind that refuses to believe them.
Sometimes I wish I could just borrow someone else’s eyes for a minute — someone who loves me, or even just someone who sees me without all the filters I put up. I wonder what they’d notice. Maybe they’d see effort and growth where I see imperfection. Maybe they’d see resilience where I only see mistakes. Maybe they’d remind me that small victories still count, that I don’t need to save pride for the extraordinary.
I’m learning, slowly, that it’s okay to feel proud even when something isn’t perfect. That I don’t have to earn every bit of happiness by proving I’m worthy of it. I’m learning that self-doubt doesn’t make me humble, it makes me disconnected from myself. And I don’t want to live like that anymore.
The truth is, I don’t want to spend my whole life achieving things only to talk myself out of them later. I don’t want to keep dimming my joy because I’m scared of what people will think if I actually love what I’ve done. I don’t want to keep chasing something that’s already here.
Sometimes, when I’m alone, I try this small thing — I look at something I’ve done and just sit with it. I resist the urge to explain it away. I try to let it count, even if it’s small, even if it’s imperfect. It feels awkward, like trying to speak a language I forgot. But it’s honest. And for a moment, I feel connected to myself again.
There’s no magic switch for this. You don’t wake up one morning and suddenly believe in your worth. It’s something you keep relearning. Some days you forget. Some days you remember. But I think that’s what healing looks like — not an arrival, just a slow return to yourself.
I still catch myself downplaying things all the time. I’ll get a message from someone saying they loved something I did, and my instinct is to deflect. I still cringe a little when someone compliments me. I still measure my worth against invisible standards. But now, when that happens, I pause. I try to listen to that smaller, quieter voice that says, “It’s okay to let this count.”
Because it does count. It always did.
And I think part of growing is realizing that it’s not about doing more, achieving more, proving more. It’s about allowing yourself to feel the joy you’ve already earned. It’s about letting the good moments belong to you without an apology. It’s about being able to look at your life and say, “I did that,” without needing to justify it or shrink it down.
Sometimes I think about how different life would feel if we actually believed in the things we’ve achieved. If we didn’t treat every success like a fluke. If we didn’t keep waiting for the next thing to make us feel worthy. Maybe we’d breathe easier. Maybe we’d finally feel at home in our own skin.
I don’t have it figured out yet. I probably never will completely. But I’m starting to notice the small things that count — the quiet moments where I give myself credit without immediately tearing it apart. The times I accept a compliment without arguing with it in my head. The moments when I look at what I’ve done and, even just for a second, let it feel real.
I’m learning to be proud, even if it feels uncomfortable. I’m learning to stop disqualifying myself from my own life. And maybe that’s the real achievement — not the awards, not the milestones, not the titles, but the courage to finally believe that I deserve to be proud of myself.
Because I do. And so do you.
