How To Deal With Self-Doubt as a Writer
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve opened a document, written three sentences, deleted them, rewritten them, and then closed the tab because suddenly I was convinced I had no idea what I was doing.
If you’re a writer, you probably know that feeling. The quiet whisper that says, “This isn’t good enough.” Or worse, “You’re not good enough.”
Here’s the thing I’ve learned the hard way: self-doubt doesn’t mean you’re a bad writer. It usually means you care. And caring is not the enemy. Mismanaging that doubt is.
Over time, I’ve realized that self-doubt isn’t something you eliminate once and for all. It’s something you learn to work with. And once you understand where it comes from and how to respond to it, it loses a lot of its power.
Let me walk you through what’s actually going on—and what you can do about it.
Why We Doubt Ourselves So Much
Self-doubt doesn’t just appear out of nowhere. It usually has roots.
Comparison is everywhere
A few years ago, I’d scroll through Medium or LinkedIn and see writers getting thousands of claps, comments, and shares. My brain would instantly translate that into, “See? They’re real writers. You’re not.”
But here’s what I didn’t realize: I was comparing my messy draft to someone else’s polished, edited, and possibly professionally reviewed work. That’s not a fair fight.
Comparison steals context. You don’t see the years of practice, the rejected drafts, the edits, the failures. You just see the final product.
When you understand that, you start to question the story you’re telling yourself.
Perfectionism in disguise
I used to tell myself I had “high standards.” Sounds noble, right?
But in reality, it was fear. I didn’t want to publish something unless it felt brilliant. The problem? First drafts are almost never brilliant.
If you expect your early drafts to read like award-winning essays, you’re setting yourself up for constant disappointment. And disappointment feeds doubt.
What changed for me was realizing that good writing usually starts as bad writing. The magic happens in revision, not in the first pass.
Fear of being judged
Let’s be honest. Writing is vulnerable. You’re putting your thoughts, ideas, and sometimes your experiences out there for strangers to react to.
I once published an article I felt proud of. A few hours later, someone left a comment pointing out a weak argument. It wasn’t even mean. But it hit me hard.
For days, I questioned whether I should even be writing about that topic.
What I’ve learned since then is this: criticism doesn’t automatically invalidate your voice. Sometimes it just means you’re visible.
And being visible is part of the job.
Practical Ways to Handle Self-Doubt
Understanding the roots is helpful. But what really makes a difference is what you do when doubt shows up.
Here are some things that have genuinely helped me.
Separate writing from editing
This one changed everything.
When I’m drafting, I don’t let myself edit. If a sentence feels awkward, I keep going. If I’m unsure about a word, I leave a placeholder and move on.
Editing and writing use different parts of your brain. When you mix them, your inner critic interrupts your creative flow.
Now I treat drafting like brainstorming. Messy is allowed. Later, I switch hats and become the editor.
The result? I actually finish drafts instead of abandoning them halfway.
Lower the pressure
Not every piece has to be your best piece.
I used to approach every article like it needed to define my career. That kind of pressure is paralyzing.
Now, I tell myself, “This is just practice.” Even if it gets published.
When you lower the stakes, you take away doubt’s favorite weapon: catastrophic thinking.
Instead of “If this fails, I’m done,” it becomes, “If this flops, I learned something.”
That shift matters.
Keep proof that you’re not terrible
This might sound silly, but I keep a small folder of kind messages, positive comments, and wins. Screenshots. Emails. Feedback from clients.
On bad days, when my brain insists I’ve never written anything worthwhile, I open that folder.
It’s hard to argue with evidence.
Our brains are wired to remember criticism more than praise. So sometimes you have to actively remind yourself of the good.
Limit your comparison triggers
If certain accounts or platforms consistently make you feel behind, it’s okay to step back.
I once muted a few writers I admired—not because I disliked them, but because I needed space to grow without constantly measuring myself.
Protecting your mindset is not weakness. It’s strategy.
Write anyway
This is the simplest and hardest advice.
There have been days when I’ve felt like a fraud sitting at my desk. But I wrote anyway. Not perfectly. Not confidently. Just consistently.
And every time I did that, something interesting happened: the doubt got quieter.
Not gone. Just quieter.
Action has a way of shrinking fear.
Changing the Story in Your Head
At some point, I realized most of my struggle wasn’t with writing itself. It was with the voice in my head narrating everything.
“You’re not original.”
“This has been said before.”
“Who do you think you are?”
Sound familiar?
The breakthrough came when I started questioning that voice instead of believing it automatically.
When my brain says, “You’re not good enough,” I respond with, “Not good enough yet.”
That one word changes everything. It turns a fixed judgment into a process.
When I think, “Everyone else is ahead,” I remind myself, “Everyone started somewhere.” The writers I admire were once beginners too. They just didn’t stop.
When I think, “This isn’t perfect,” I tell myself, “It doesn’t need to be perfect to be useful.”
And honestly? Some of the articles I doubted the most ended up resonating deeply with readers. Not because they were flawless, but because they were honest.
That’s another lesson I didn’t expect: readers connect more with clarity and sincerity than with perfection.
Self-doubt doesn’t disappear when you become more successful. I’ve talked to experienced writers who still feel it before publishing.
The difference is they don’t treat it as a stop sign anymore.
They treat it as background noise.
And I’m still learning this too. Some days are easier than others. But every time I sit down and write despite the doubt, I build a little more trust in myself.
And that trust? It’s stronger than any temporary wave of insecurity.
Practical Ways to Handle Self-Doubt
Let’s get into the part that actually helps when you’re staring at your screen thinking, “Why am I even doing this?”
I’ve tried ignoring self-doubt. I’ve tried arguing with it. I’ve tried waiting for confidence to magically show up first.
None of that worked.
What did work was building small habits that made doubt less powerful. Not gone. Just manageable.
Separate writing from editing
This was a game changer for me.
I used to write a sentence and immediately tweak it. Then tweak it again. Then delete it. Then rewrite it. By the time I finished one paragraph, I was mentally exhausted.
Here’s what I didn’t understand back then: writing and editing are two completely different skills.
Writing is creative. It’s messy. It’s exploratory.
Editing is analytical. It’s critical. It’s precise.
When you try to do both at the same time, your inner critic sits in the passenger seat yelling directions while you’re just trying to drive.
Now I draft fast and ugly. I give myself permission to write things like “insert better example here” or “this sounds weird, fix later.” I don’t stop.
Then I step away. When I come back, I switch into editor mode.
And almost every time, I’m surprised. What felt terrible in the moment is usually fixable. Sometimes it’s even… good.
Most doubt comes from judging a draft too early.
Lower the pressure
For a long time, I treated every article like it needed to be my defining piece.
That kind of pressure is suffocating.
If you believe each blog post has to prove you’re talented, intelligent, insightful, and original all at once, of course you’re going to freeze.
I started asking myself a simple question before writing: “What if this is just practice?”
Not everything needs to go viral. Not everything needs to impress everyone.
Think about athletes. They don’t treat every practice like it’s the championship game. They train, experiment, fail, adjust.
Writing is the same.
When I gave myself permission to write pieces that were just “good enough,” my productivity doubled. Ironically, my quality improved too. Because I was actually finishing things.
Keep a proof file
This might sound cheesy, but it works.
I have a folder on my laptop called “Read This When You Feel Like a Fraud.”
Inside it are screenshots of positive comments, kind emails, client feedback, and small wins. Even messages that simply say, “This helped me.”
On bad days, my brain conveniently forgets all of that.
Self-doubt has a selective memory. It replays criticism in HD and blurs out praise.
So I built evidence.
One time, after receiving a harsh review on a piece I’d written, I spiraled for hours. Then I opened that folder. Within five minutes, I had tangible reminders that people had connected with my work before.
Facts are stronger than feelings.
If you don’t have a proof file yet, start one. Even one positive comment is enough to begin.
Limit comparison triggers
Let me be honest. There are writers I admire deeply. And sometimes, reading their work makes me feel inspired.
Other times, it makes me feel small.
The difference isn’t them. It’s my state of mind.
When I’m already feeling insecure, scrolling through highly polished content can amplify that insecurity. So I’ve learned to pay attention.
If a platform consistently makes you feel behind, take a break. If certain accounts trigger comparison spirals, mute them for a while.
This isn’t about avoiding growth. It’s about protecting your mental space.
You can admire someone without measuring yourself against them every day.
Focus on process, not outcomes
Early on, I obsessed over metrics. Views. Shares. Followers. Comments.
If a piece didn’t perform well, I immediately translated that into “I’m not good at this.”
But performance depends on so many factors outside your control—timing, algorithms, trends, audience mood.
So I shifted my goals.
Instead of “Get 1,000 views,” I aimed for “Write 500 words today.”
Instead of “Land a major publication,” I focused on “Pitch two editors this week.”
Process goals are controllable. Outcome goals are not.
And when you consistently hit process goals, something interesting happens: confidence builds naturally.
Not because you’re constantly praised, but because you trust your discipline.
Write through the doubt
This is the hardest advice, but also the most important.
There have been mornings when I’ve thought, “You have nothing valuable to say.” And yet, I set a timer for 25 minutes and wrote anyway.
Sometimes what comes out is messy. Sometimes it’s surprisingly clear.
But every time I write despite doubt, I teach my brain something new: self-doubt is not a stop sign.
It’s background noise.
And the more you move forward with the noise playing, the less dramatic it feels.
Changing the Story in Your Head
If I’m being honest, most of my battle with self-doubt hasn’t been about skill. It’s been about narrative.
The quiet commentary running in the background.
“You’re not original.”
“This has already been said.”
“You’re behind.”
“You’re not qualified.”
For years, I believed those thoughts automatically.
Now, I treat them like unverified opinions.
Question the voice
When that inner critic says, “You’re not good enough,” I ask, “According to who?”
Usually, there’s no real answer.
Sometimes the voice is just echoing something from the past—a teacher’s comment, a rejected pitch, a comparison I made years ago.
Here’s something that changed my perspective: thoughts are not facts.
They feel convincing. They sound authoritative. But they’re not automatically true.
Once I started questioning the voice instead of obeying it, I felt more in control.
Add one powerful word
One tiny word has helped me more than any motivational quote ever could.
Yet.
When my brain says, “You’re not skilled enough to write about this,” I respond with, “Not skilled enough yet.”
That word turns a fixed identity into a growth process.
It reminds me that writing is learned through repetition, not granted at birth.
Every writer you admire was once inexperienced. The only difference is they kept going.
Redefine what success means
For a long time, I thought confidence would come after external validation.
After more followers.
After better-paying clients.
After a bigger publication accepted my work.
But each time I hit a milestone, the doubt didn’t disappear. It just moved the goalpost.
That’s when I realized something uncomfortable: if your confidence depends entirely on external validation, it will always feel fragile.
So I redefined success.
Success became showing up consistently.
Success became finishing drafts.
Success became improving one small skill at a time.
And oddly enough, that shift made me feel steadier than any spike in views ever did.
Remember why you started
When doubt gets loud, I ask myself why I started writing in the first place.
For me, it wasn’t metrics. It wasn’t status.
It was curiosity. It was the joy of putting thoughts into words. It was the quiet satisfaction of making something out of nothing.
Reconnect with that.
Maybe you started writing because you had stories to tell. Or ideas you wanted to explore. Or experiences you wanted to process.
That original spark matters more than temporary insecurity.
Accept that doubt may never fully disappear
This might not be what you want to hear, but it’s freeing once you accept it.
I’ve spoken with writers far more accomplished than me. Books published. Large audiences. Awards.
They still feel self-doubt before releasing something new.
The difference? They don’t interpret it as a sign to stop.
They interpret it as a sign they’re stretching.
And stretching is uncomfortable by definition.
When I feel nervous before publishing now, I try to reframe it as growth instead of inadequacy.
If you never feel doubt, you’re probably not pushing yourself.
Before You Leave
If you take one thing from this, let it be this: self-doubt is not proof that you’re a bad writer. It’s proof that you care about your work.
The goal isn’t to silence it forever. The goal is to keep writing anyway.
Write when you feel confident.
Write when you feel unsure.
Write when you feel like an imposter.
Because every time you do, you’re building something much stronger than temporary confidence.
You’re building trust in yourself.
