…and that’s fantastic news
There’s a particular flavour of madness that descends as you’re brushing your teeth in the mirror, wondering whether your green shirt is a statement or a cry for help. Or later that night, when your brain decides it’s the perfect time to host a one-person tribunal over that one sentence you blurted out to a colleague three days ago. “Why did I say that? They definitely think I’m an idiot. No question. Life is over.”
Now, to be clear: I don’t tend to overthink other people’s words or actions. But my own? Oh, I could give a TED talk on that topic. With charts.
So, I took it to Davo—the poor sod gets all my psychological detritus first—and we poked it around until some clarity popped up. And I thought, you know what? Maybe you need this reminder too.
Here it is. Deep breath.
Nobody is thinking about you.
Not really. Not in the way you think they are. Not with the microscope you turn on yourself every time you trip over a sentence or second-guess your outfit in a bathroom mirror.
You think you’re alone in that? You’re not. We’re all broadcasting on our own private frequency of self-scrutiny. We’re little walking radios tuned exclusively to our own static. Everyone at the party is too busy mentally rewriting their last sentence to notice you spilled a bit of gin on your shirt. Trust me. I’ve done double-blind field research on this. It’s called “having a social life”.
You think people care if you stammered during a story? If your mascara was a bit enthusiastic? They don’t. They were too busy worrying about whether they looked weird chewing the canapé.
And on the off-chance they did notice? They’ll forget. Or remember. Either way: so what? People’s thoughts are like soap bubbles—impressive for a moment, then gone with the next breeze.
There was a stretch in my life when I genuinely didn’t give a toss what people thought of how I looked. Not because I was enlightened, but because I was exhausted. And it was oddly peaceful. That freedom from constant self-surveillance—it’s addictive. I lost it for a while. Still do, now and then. When the anxiety kicks in and isolation starts to cocoon me in cotton wool, I get hyper-attuned to how I’m coming across again. Polishing every word. Running quality control on every facial expression. It’s bloody tiring.
And it begs the question: is that really how I want to live?
Am I just a nervous actor in someone else’s imagined theatre?
Because here’s what I do know about myself:
I’m warm. I’m funny (occasionally by accident). I love lifting people up, even if it’s just for a breath or a laugh. That’s who I am. That’s the bit of me that deserves daylight. And burying that because someone might have an opinion? Come on. That’s no way to live. That’s a hostage negotiation.
So here’s your permission slip. And mine, too.
Go out with slightly crooked eyeliner. Stumble over a joke. Ramble too long about the weird thing you’re currently obsessed with. Do it. Let the world meet the unedited version of you—the version who laughs too loudly, who pauses too long, who feels things a bit too much. That’s the good stuff. That’s what people remember, if they remember anything at all.
And look, if it helps—the most confident people I know? The ones who dress like icons and swan into rooms with zero apparent fear? Yeah. They’ve all come to me quietly, at some point, to say, “God, I can’t stop thinking about that stupid thing I said.”
Every last one of them.
Turns out, confidence isn’t immunity. It’s just better acting.
So no, you’re not alone. Yes, everyone feels this. And no, you don’t need to let it run your life. Say the thing. Make the joke. Take the risk. You are a blip in someone else’s day—and that, my friend, is glorious news.
Because it means you’re free.
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