I’m Fitch.

You might know me as that voice in your head that shows up right after you do something impressive.

I don’t knock.

I don’t ask permission.

I just slither in and start whispering things like,

“They’re gonna find out you have no idea what you’re doing.”

Charming, I know.

I hang out when you're winning,when people clap for you,

when you're on the verge of something really good.

And I ask the same question every time:

“Do you actually deserve this?”

That’s kind of my thing.

Doubt. Discredit. Distract.

Just enough to make you second-guess everything.

I pretend I’m helping. Keeping you humble. Keeping you sharp.

But mostly, I just make you feel like a fraud in your own life.

I get loud when you're growing. When you're seen.

When you're finally proud of yourself and that’s no accident.

You don’t have to destroy me.

I’m probably not going anywhere, but you can learn to spot me.

To call me out. To tell me to shut up while you get back to being brilliant.

I’m Fitch.

I’m not real, but I make a hell of a mess if you let me.