Becoming an adult made me see myself as less confident.
But maturing made me realize something deeper.
Adulthood is not the presence of maturity — it is merely time passing.
The same way timidness is not the absence of confidence — it is simply a quieter expression of it.
Somewhere along the way, I was nearly convinced otherwise.
The world is a conveyor belt, quietly producing archetypes.
Efficiency over originality.
Conformity over creativity.
Those who are different are not always attacked directly.
They are studied. Questioned. Persuaded.
Doubt is sown just enough to make you wonder whether standing apart is a losing battle.
Conformity is cultivated, not forced.
The system works so well because its agents are unsuspecting.
People policing it — quietly, unknowingly — play the role of Big Brother.
Not from malice, but from habit. From reward. From the belief that alignment is the same as growth.
I was nearly convinced.
But not entirely.
Some part of me remained intact — discerning, watching, resisting.
Confidence is comfort and trust in oneself. It does not need to perform. It does not need permission.
As a child, I had that — not because I understood the word, but because I embodied it.
I mistook noise for proof, performance for growth.
I let water into the boat without realizing I had loosened the planks to fit in.
You’re almost thirty now, facilitating a renaissance of self.
That bit of you, deep inside me under all the rubble, whispered life into my discernment.
I am remembering what I already knew.
Dear seven-year-old me,
You were never lacking.
You were quiet, not uncertain.
They nearly convinced you otherwise.
Nearly.
