I Published my Book, So Why Didn’t I Feel Amazing?

Imposter syndrome comes for all of us

My book in the window of my favorite local bookstore, Blackbird Bookstore and Cafe.

This week is the first anniversary of the release of my book, Decolonizing the Body.

Its introduction to the world changed my life, but not in the ways that I imagined.

I thought writing a book would uplevel my career. “Think of it like your new business card,” it was suggested. My book would be my ticket to sharing my message on a bigger stage.  

Speaking, traveling, interviews, corporate gigs, it all glimmered before me.

Except that it didn’t.

When the time came to promote my project—planning and executing a self-funded book tour, asking my contacts for their contacts, and unabashedly selling myself, pitching podcasts and other media—I couldn’t do it.   

I tried. At the encouragement of friends, I scheduled a couple of local readings. I let myself be celebrated by colleagues. I ordered extra copies of my book and sold them at events. I pestered family to leave Amazon reviews. I shipped books gratis to industry folks I respect. I hired an expensive publicist to grow my reach. But none of this felt like enough. Getting my book “out there” was supposed to be my primary focus, but between the occasional email or reading, what I mostly felt like doing was nothing at all.

While I had enjoyed (most days of) the creative process where I felt on purpose, connected, and alive, this next stage of book publishing left me tired, irritable, and depressed. Shifting from the cozy bubble of researching and writing to pitches and one-pagers felt like getting doused with icy water. My instincts were to duck and cover even though I loved what I’d created and wanted to share it with the world.

Rather than feeling like a success, on the other side of accomplishing my lifelong goal of becoming an author, I was convinced I was a failure. This was my shot, and I was blowing it simply because I couldn’t do what countless authors before me had somehow shown up for. I couldn’t sell myself. 

I “gave up” on my book shortly after its release date. I accepted it was a flop (evidenced by what? I’m not sure), and by extension, so was I. I told myself that the next book would be better. Yes, that was it. Whatever I would write next would prove I was legitimate (by what standard?) and should be taken seriously (by whom?). Henceforth, I would relate to the book I had just written as the first pancake. They could only get better.

I realized I needed help -- not to be a better book-promoting solider, but to survive a relentless inner critic who seemed intent on squashing me like a bug under its giant, cold thumb. It was not lost on me that my book was all about decolonizing body and mind, and yet, with its release, the voices of my internalized racial capitalism were louder than ever.

They told me I was not good enough, smart enough, or savvy enough to be taken seriously. Instead, I was a fake who should be ashamed to show her face in public and also embarrassed by my inability to do so. I cringed if anyone read my book and offered a word of kindness. The critic interpreted these compliments as unnecessary niceties incited by other’s clear seeing of how pitiful my work truly was.  

A received such kind words from this friend when Decolonizing the Body was published. But did I believe them?

From many years on the meditation cushion and much therapeutic work, I knew feelings of low self-worth reared their head anytime I risked putting myself in a position to be seen or asked to take up more space. I also knew that this conditioning was not due to some faulty wiring but connected to inherited ancestral patterning and the impacts of living inside systems structured by violence and inequity.

In the book, I write, “The internal doubt that so many of us struggle with is not a personal failing; it’s a societal one.”

Still, even with all this awareness, I was flattened by the viciousness that swelled inside. Though I knew my thinking was inaccurate and unhealthy, I could not simply disregard it and push through. What was arising felt old and beyond my ability to manage. I needed help.  

I let go of promoting my book even though the internal roaring voice said I was a loser for doing so. I didn’t believe I had a good enough excuse for bowing out. Unlike other successful authors, I was not a new mother. I was not trying to balance some other full-time job. I did not caretake ageing parents. I walked away because my wellbeing required it. I got off Instagram. I stopped pitching podcasts and other news media. My job was now trying to get my bearings and keep both feet on the earth as an internal storm raged.   

The Decolonizing the Body program, which had been the impetus for the book, was put on hold. While I continued seeing clients and showing up for events when requested, I mostly slept, took walks, and looked for the community help I knew I needed. My priority became seeking space to feel and be held in my unraveling. By some kind of grace, an impromptu Google search revealed a 12-step group just for people like me who struggle to know their worth. Who knew?

Despite my many outside achievements, I’ve often wondered, “Will I ever feel enough?” “Will I ever be truly confident in my value?” Yes, I can intellectually know that I’m just as good as anyone else, but will I ever know this deeply in my bones? In this healing space with folks from all walks of life, ethnicities, and professions, I heard many others grapple with versions of these same questions. We had nothing and everything in common. We were high achievers. We overworked. We found it challenging to ask for help. We all seemed to have a perverse internal voice suggesting there was always more we could be and should be doing.

When I was asked to write a book, I remember being giddy at the prospect. My excitement wasn’t about up-leveling my business or positioning myself as an expert. I cared about helping other women of color feel less alone in their own navigating of the oppressive systems we all live within. I wasn’t sure I had enough to say to fill the contracted 55,000 words, but I was willing to try. As I wholeheartedly embarked on the writing process, I began to recognize that I was in service to something larger than myself. Ideas serendipitously floated my way. Chapter headings came to me in my dreams. A walk on the beach might avail a new practice. An overheard conversation could spark possibilities for a paragraph I was currently writing. The creative process felt like a generative womb space connecting me to the natural world, my ancestors, and my intuition. I worried that one day the flow of ideas would cease, that I’d reach an impenetrable block, but that day never came.

When the spotlight flicked on and it was time to push this vulnerable creation into the light, something switched in my head. My book became an extension of myself, and now thrust into the glow, I waited for an audience to tell me I was good enough. “Tell me what I’m worth,” “Tell me who I am,” “Tell me that I matter.” My being hungered for affirmation with each emailed interview request. Outsourcing my value was a role I’d long perfected.

When the standing ovation did not come, I stood at the precipice of a new layer of healing I wasn’t eager to plunge into. It said, “Steady yourself with support. You’ve gone far enough alone.” I needed to be seen in my undone-ness and hear, “We’re with you.” I needed to voice all my fears about being a flop and not be talked out of feeling this way. I needed to see how un-original my patterns of worthlessness were, and in this, the humor and insanity.

I am still in process. I have not successfully slain my inner beast. Feelings of unworthiness may be a core hurt that I’ll always wrestle with in some way. Still, I’m not the same girl who pressed the send button on that final book draft last year.

There’s an emerging embodiment showing me that I am not my book. None of us are the things we make. They’re on their own journey. Any hunger for legitimacy or approval we feel after putting ourselves out there will never be met through accolades and pats on the back. Meeting this need is unfortunately an inside job.

How do we do it? For most of my life I have not extended toward myself the same care I so easily offer others. What happens when this grounded, spacious, loving me comes along behind closed doors? How does she prioritize my care and wellbeing? How does she support me to treat myself? This me dances between client sessions. She eats more vegetables. She reads books for pleasure. She is curious about what it looks like to move with purpose even when no one is watching.

A newfound fierceness is also present. I’m less willing to compromise myself to keep others happy. If a new hairstylist keeps me waiting well past our appointment time while he argues with someone on the phone, I leave. When a friend asks for a hang date, I don’t automatically assume that means I’ll come to them. When a paying gig conflicts with scheduled personal time, I decline.

These are small victories, but they’re indications of an emerging confidence I didn’t know I’d find. They also prove something I’ve long believed – we can’t heal alone. We need a refuge where our most shameful parts can be welcomed. We require the medicine of hearing our vulnerabilities reflected in the stories of strangers. When we’re sure there’s no way through, we deserve the balm of “you’re doing a good job” and other encouragements from those who’ve been where we are.   

This is my intention with this space and every space I hold. And that is why I’m sharing this story here.

My book has changed me, but not in the ways I expected. It opened the door for yet another layer of unlearning.  

With you in the unraveling,

Kelsey

p.s. We are doing a good job.

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Here’s what’s coming up …

• Thursday, March 14 at 11 a.m. PT
  Movement Meditation for Women of Color: Feeling for What’s Holding You
  This month, we’ll make space to recognize the support that’s always available. This is the work of tuning in to the ancestors, elements, plants, animals or any other being you feel a kinship with. What blessings may they offer? This is a free somatic and ritual space for women of color offered on the second Thursday of every month. Learn more about it.