The Courage to Do It Anyway

A personal reflection on fear, self-trust, and the quiet courage it takes to start something new—especially when the outcome is uncertain.

When I was younger, I often struggled with confidence.

Part of that came from being very aware of my surroundings. Even before the internet, social media, and phones, kids could still sense differences with peers—especially when their families had less financial stability or social status compared to their peers.

That struggle lingered into my twenties. My circumstances were different—I had a degree, was engaged, and starting an independent life with my fiancée—but the old insecurities came with me.

It wasn’t really until I finished grad school at 26, landed a steady job, and started building a life that things began to shift. By age 30, I was married, a father, working at a Fortune 50 company, and had paid off some debt.

We were beginning to find our footing, and with it, a little more confidence. Over time, those results built up—and so did my trust in myself.

I realized that when I took the time to research something, look at the data, and make a decision, it usually turned out to be the right one. Eventually, I reached a point where I welcomed pushback. If you had a different perspective or data that challenged my view, bring it on. But if not, I moved forward, doing what I believed was right.

The External Trap

It’s easy to look back and wonder why I cared so much about external markers. But that feels unfair.

When you haven’t yet seen your decisions turn into good outcomes—especially after early setbacks—it’s natural to look outward for a definition of success, to borrow other people’s sense of what “good” looks like.

External validation does have value—life isn’t lived in a vacuum. Friendships don’t last if they’re one-sided, and authentic partnerships require mutual consideration.

“You don’t outgrow uncertainty. You learn to act anyway.”

The problem is when external validation becomes the measure for whether you move forward at all. The things we measure ourselves against haven’t really changed—looks, money, cars, houses, weddings, vacations, likes, followers. None of it is new.

Social media just cranked the volume a thousand times louder.

It used to be just the people around you—family, friends, neighbors, co-workers—who saw your life. Now that includes strangers.

Someone stumbles across your blog and calls you an idiot. Another clicks on your website and decides your book idea is a joke. The danger isn’t what they say—it’s how quickly you start to believe them.

That doubt doesn’t vanish with age; it just resurfaces whenever you take on something new.

Reclaiming Control

Now, in my early 50s, I’ve taken a leap—leaving the stability of a corporate career to go all-in on writing.

At first, I felt steady. Writing, editing, shaping the book gave me a sense of control. But now the book is finished, and with publishing on the horizon, those old doubts are whispering again. Because once it’s out in the world, it’s no longer hidden—it’s exposed.

What’s different now—unlike the younger, more inexperienced version of myself—is that I see it clearly. I know what’s happening. And more importantly, I know I have agency in how I respond.

So now, I just accept it.

Tom Brady recently said that not fearing failure helps you perform your best.

“There are certain people who have… no fear of failure. And that allows you—that frees you up—to go out and be your best.”

He talked about how fear makes you tighten up. “Because people that fear failure, well, then that means they're trying to control it. And when you feel that lack of control or lack of confidence, well, people can see it on your face.”

If you don’t believe in yourself, no one else will.

I’ve learned that when you care too much about how your work is received, you start holding back. You second-guess. You hesitate. And that hesitation has a cost—especially when writing fiction that tackles social themes or challenges the status quo. The story begins to feel empty. It doesn't feel honest, and readers can sense that.

That’s why external validation does matter, but the sequence has to be right.

The reason I write—and the choices that brought me here—are primarily grounded in internal validation. I don’t need everyone to approve. I don’t need the world to get it. And I’m fine if some people think I’ve made a strange or impractical choice.

But let’s be real: I’m writing a book. I want people to read it. I want it to resonate.

“Clarity usually comes after action, not before.”

I can’t pretend I don’t care what anyone thinks. That’s why beta readers, editors, and reviewers exist—to help shape and sharpen the work. You need some external feedback. You need a mirror.

But that’s all it should be: a guide, not a verdict.

Opportunity Over Outcome

All you can really ask for in life is the opportunity.

Not everyone gets one. There are a thousand reasons why—bad decisions, broken environments, absent parents, lack of entitlement or too much of it, racism, sexism, class barriers. Life isn’t fair, and opportunity isn’t evenly distributed.

But when you do get that opportunity, the only thing to do is act. Do what you believe is right. Do it your way. And accept that the ending may not be what you imagined or hoped for. Because the real value isn’t in the outcome—it’s in the action itself. It’s in the fact that you took the shot.

Don’t wait for the moment when insecurity disappears. It won’t. Move anyway.

Clarity usually comes after action, not before.

I was reading a retirement book and it had a chapter about what people say on their deathbeds—their biggest regrets. And what stood out wasn’t the things they tried and failed at. It was the things they never tried. Not running that race. Not writing that book. Not restoring the old car in the garage.

The regret wasn’t, “I wrote a book and no one read it.”

It was, “I never wrote the book I always dreamed of writing.”

That hit me hard—and it validated a lot of what I’ve come to believe. I’m not saying everyone should quit their job and write a novel. We all have different responsibilities, passions, and constraints.

But if you’re unhappy or unfulfilled, don’t let fear of change paralyze you.

Start with a real, honest conversation—with yourself, your partner, your trusted people. What do you want to do? What would light you up? Then figure out how to create the chance to do that. Because that’s all you can ask for: a chance. An opportunity.

And once you get it, don’t stall. Don’t hold back out of fear. Just do it. That way, even if it doesn’t work out, you can say: I tried.

Maybe you wanted to see all 50 states and only made it to 48. Perhaps you went to Paris and it rained. But at least you lived the story.

That’s always better than standing still and wondering what if.

AI as a Sounding Board

For all the valid concerns and potential downsides of AI, one of the most valuable things it offers is a safe space to think aloud. It can be a guide—or a sounding board—for ideas you’re not quite ready to share with anyone else.

You can prompt something like, “Here’s what I want to do. Here’s my situation. What do you think?” No fear of judgment. No awkwardness. No one else has to see it.

But to really get value from it, push it. Be specific. Say, “Poke holes in this. Is it practical? Is this timeline realistic? What am I overlooking? What could go wrong? What’s the worst-case scenario?”

That kind of unfiltered, low-stakes feedback can be your starting point. And once you’ve seen the risks and the path more clearly—once your idea has survived a little scrutiny—you can bring it to your partner, your friend, your sibling.

You start with AI, not because it's perfect, but because it gives you space to think clearly before you open yourself up to real-world judgment.

Eventually, though, you have to bring those ideas into the real world—and that’s where the people around you make all the difference.

Support Matters

Some of the most critical moments in my life came when someone chose not to shut me down. A professor who pushed me to sharpen my ideas instead of brushing them aside. A boss who trusted me with a project I probably wasn’t ready for. Friends who asked questions instead of saying, “Yeah, I wouldn’t do that.”

Those moments mattered because they gave me room to grow.

I’ve seen the power of that kind of support most clearly in my own marriage.

In her early 40s, my wife decided she wanted to run the Boston Marathon. She’d never run a marathon. Never even done a 5K. It was a massive leap—months of training and discipline.

I’m no runner, but I supported her the best I could. We took family trips around her races, cheered her on at the finish line, gave her tough love when she needed it, and even surprised her with a running camp in Estes Park. I believed in her, even on the days she doubted herself.

And spoiler: she did it. She trained, qualified, ran, and finished the Boston Marathon. After she crossed the finish line, I bought her a plaque for her medals and bibs. It has just one line: She believed she could, so she did.

That same kind of support flows the other way now. My wife may not be a writer, but she’s the one who encouraged me to quit and go full-time. She protects my solo time so I can write, reads my words and gives feedback, and when the doubts creep in, she’s the one who picks me back up.

The truth is, no one runs a marathon—or writes a novel—alone. Self-belief matters, but support makes it sustainable.

Support isn’t just something we give or receive in marriage or family. It’s something we can extend outward—to friends, colleagues, even strangers—by listening, asking questions, and nudging them toward possibility.

That’s the kind of mentor I want to be now. Not the one who lectures or blindly agrees, but the one who listens, asks questions, and helps someone else see what might be possible. I can’t control their choices or their outcomes. But maybe I can be the spark that keeps them moving.

And that’s the kind of person I want to be in this next phase—not just someone who chased his own path, but someone who helped others find the courage to chase theirs.

I don’t know exactly where this will lead—this book, this creative life—but I’m not waiting for certainty anymore.

I’ve done the research. I’ve faced the fear.

I’m doing it anyway.