On self-trust, validation, and the practice of reclaiming our own power
For the longest time, I was seeking permission.
Permission to trust myself.
Permission to believe in my own insights.
Permission to call myself an artist.
Permission to take up space and be seen.
I was looking for validation through studying, certifications, qualifications, awards, and recognition. I kept collecting knowledge, hoping that somewhere along the way, I would finally feel confident enough to trust what I already knew.
I didn't fully believe in my own insights until I found them published in someone else's book.
There was something about seeing another person articulate what I had experienced or understood that made it feel more legitimate. As if my own knowing needed to be confirmed by someone else before I could take it seriously.
And yet, even with all the validation, it was never enough.
Looking back, I can see how this pattern followed me through different stages of my life.
The awards that didn't make me feel enough
When I worked as a creative director, I remember winning awards.
Recognition that, on paper, should have meant something. Something that confirmed my abilities, my creativity, and the work I had done.
But somehow, it didn't really matter.
The awards didn't give me the sense of confidence or belonging I thought they would.
They didn't change the way I related to myself.
And perhaps that was the first indication that what I was looking for could not be found in external recognition.
I could be recognised by others and still struggle to recognise myself.
I could be acknowledged for my work and still question my own abilities.
I could receive validation and still feel that something was missing.
Because the question was never really whether I was good enough.
The question was whether I could trust myself without needing someone else to confirm it.
It took years to call myself an artist
When I moved to Berlin, I remember repeatedly saying:
I am not an artist.
I am not a performer.
I am not a singer.
Even though I was performing.
Even though I was being selected for shows.
Even though I was standing on big stages.
Somehow, the experience itself wasn't enough to change the story I was telling myself.
I was doing the things an artist does, but I couldn't fully claim that identity.
It took years before I could finally say:
Yes, I am an artist.
Not because someone gave me permission.
Not because I collected enough recognition.
Not because I suddenly became more qualified.
But because something inside me began to shift.
I started to understand that the way I saw myself was not necessarily connected to what I was actually doing.
And that the gap between the two was something I needed to practice working with.
Knowledge is not the same as transformation
As a yoga teacher, I collected thousands of hours of training and certifications.
I studied different traditions, explored different practices, and accumulated knowledge.
And yoga gave me something invaluable.
It taught me to look within.
To sit with discomfort.
To observe my thoughts, my reactions, and the patterns that shape the way I move through the world.
It taught me that awareness is a practice.
That sometimes the most important thing is not to immediately fix, change, or escape what is happening, but to stay present long enough to understand it.
And yet, even with all this knowledge, I kept noticing the same pattern.
I would understand something about myself.
I would recognise where it came from.
I would see how it had shaped my choices.
And still, I would find myself repeating it.
I could understand why I was seeking validation and still seek it.
I could recognise that I was giving my power away and still do it.
I could know that I didn't need permission and still wait for it.
This is something I have been reflecting on deeply.
Understanding a pattern does not mean the pattern disappears.
Knowing where it comes from doesn't automatically change the way we respond.
And having the language to describe something doesn't mean we have learned how to live differently.
Awareness matters.
But awareness is not the end of the process.
It is the beginning.
The practice of not giving our power away
I have been thinking about how much energy we spend looking outside ourselves for answers.
We seek another qualification.
Another teacher.
Another book.
Another person who can tell us what we already suspect.
And there is nothing inherently wrong with learning from others.
Studying, being mentored, receiving feedback, and being part of a community is deeply nourishing.
The problem begins when we stop trusting our own experience until someone else validates it.
When we begin to believe that our knowing is only legitimate if it has been recognised by an external authority.
When we keep postponing our own becoming until we feel sufficiently qualified, sufficiently prepared, or sufficiently accepted.
Sometimes looking for solutions outside ourselves is easier than practicing trust within.
Because practice asks something different from us.
It asks us to stay with uncertainty.
To tolerate the discomfort of not knowing.
To take action without guarantees.
To make mistakes and learn from them.
To keep showing up even when nobody is watching, applauding, or validating us.
And perhaps most importantly, it asks us to stop abandoning ourselves in the moments when we feel unsure.
This is not about rejecting knowledge or pretending that we don't need other people.
It is about learning to relate to knowledge differently.
To receive what is useful without surrendering our own discernment.
To learn from others without making them the authority over our lives.
To recognise that someone else's experience can illuminate our own, but it cannot replace it.
The practice is not to stop seeking knowledge. It is to stop using knowledge as a substitute for trusting ourselves.
A bird and the practice of flying
I keep coming back to the image of a bird.
A bird can have wings.
But having wings and flying are not the same thing.
To fly, the bird needs to use its wings.
It needs to make an effort.
It needs to move.
It needs to practice.
The wings are there, but they do not fly on their own.
And if the bird never uses them, gravity will keep pulling it down.
I think there is something beautiful in this image.
We can spend years learning about our potential.
We can collect knowledge about ourselves.
We can understand our strengths, our histories, our conditioning, and the things that hold us back.
We can even know, intellectually, that we are capable of something.
But at some point, we have to begin practicing.
We have to take the knowledge into our lives.
We have to use what we have.
We have to make the effort, even when it feels uncomfortable.
And sometimes, we have to begin before we feel ready.
Not because we are already fearless.
But because courage is something we practice, too.
Freedom is a practice
I used to think that one day I would arrive at a place where I felt completely confident.
A place where I no longer questioned myself.
Where I no longer needed validation.
Where I could simply trust my own knowing.
But I am beginning to understand that perhaps this is not how it works.
Perhaps self-trust is not a destination.
Perhaps it is a relationship that we build through practice.
Every time we notice ourselves seeking permission and choose to listen inwardly.
Every time we recognise our own knowing without immediately dismissing it.
Every time we take a step without waiting for someone else to tell us we are ready.
Every time we allow ourselves to be seen, even when the old stories tell us we are not enough.
Every time we make a mistake and choose not to turn it into evidence that we should stop.
These are small acts.
But they are also the practice.
And the practice is what begins to change the relationship we have with ourselves.
Not overnight.
Not through a single realisation.
But through repetition.
Through effort.
Through the willingness to keep returning.
Practice, not permission
I am learning that I don't need another certificate to trust my own insights.
I don't need another award to recognise my creativity.
I don't need someone else to name me an artist before I can claim that part of myself.
I can continue learning.
I can continue studying.
I can continue receiving wisdom from others.
But I don't want to keep giving my power away in the process.
I want to practice trusting myself.
I want to practice staying with the discomfort of uncertainty.
I want to practice acting from what I know, rather than waiting until someone else confirms it.
I want to practice using my wings.
Because the truth is, a bird doesn't need permission to fly.
It needs to make the effort.
It needs to practice.
And perhaps this is what freedom asks of us, too.
Not to become someone who never doubts.
Not to become someone who has collected enough knowledge to finally be worthy.
But to become someone who can meet the doubt without handing over their power.
Someone who can keep learning without losing their own voice.
Someone who can take a step without waiting for permission.
We don't need permission to fly.
We need to practice using our wings.
And perhaps the most radical practice of all is learning to trust that we already have them.
Practice, not permission.
