A few weeks ago, I was staring at a project I’d poured my heart into — something I knew could help people.
It was ready. Polished. Solid.
But still, I hesitated.
Not because I doubted the value. Not because I didn’t think it was good enough.
I hesitated because of one quiet, persistent thought: “What will people think?”
It’s a question that sounds rational at first. Strategic, even. We don’t want to be reckless or cringeworthy. We want to be thoughtful. Smart. But if I’m honest, that wasn’t what was happening.
I was stalling.
So I asked myself a different question:
“Who, exactly, am I worried about?”
I started scrolling through my mental Rolodex.
Friends? No — I knew they’d support me.
Colleagues? Maybe curious, but not critical.
Old classmates? Doubt they’re even watching.
Family? Probably proud.
No one came to mind. No one specific. That’s when it hit me: I wasn’t afraid of someone’s opinion. I was afraid of an imaginary crowd. A vague “they.”
A collection of faceless critics who don’t actually exist in my day-to-day life — but somehow hold massive influence over my choices.
And that crowd? It’s loud, judgmental, and never satisfied. It’s the internalized voice of insecurity, social pressure, perfectionism, and fear all blended into one shapeless mob.
But here’s the wild part: They’ve never actually stopped by. They’re just echoes in my head.
I call them the “fictional committee.”
They don’t have names. They’ve never sent me a message or offered feedback.
But they’ve caused me to hesitate.
To second-guess.
To shrink.
And yet, when I finally do the thing — when I launch the project, post the content, share the idea — none of those fears ever materialize.
In fact, the opposite often happens:
I get support. I spark conversations. I gain clarity.
So why does this invisible audience still have so much power?
Because I gave it to them. I let my imagination work against me instead of for me. I rehearsed judgment instead of rehearsing success. I created a narrative of rejection before giving reality a chance to show up.
The Power of Specificity
Now when I feel myself holding back, I’ve started asking one simple question:
“Who am I actually worried about?”
If I can’t name someone, that’s my sign. It means the fear isn’t rooted in reality — it’s rooted in perception.
That one question has helped me:
- Launch ideas faster
- Speak more freely
- Take more ownership of my work
- Feel lighter emotionally
It’s wild how much energy we spend managing relationships with people who exist only in our imaginations.
Here’s the thing. We all care what people think to some degree. That’s part of being human. But it’s different to care constructively versus letting it cripple us.
If you’re trying to grow, build, or become — there will always be a moment where you’ll feel that pause. That hesitation. When it comes, try this instead:
- Name the person. If you’re scared of judgment, who exactly are you worried about?
- Test the fear. Would that person actually judge you? Do they even have that kind of influence in your life?
- Flip the focus. Ask: “Who could be helped if I moved forward?”
Most of the time, you’ll realize the risk is imaginary — and the potential impact is very real.
The Takeaway
That day, I decided to post the project anyway. Not because the fear was gone, but because I realized the fear had no real target. And I wasn’t going to let a fictional audience keep me from doing real work.
You can’t please an audience that doesn’t exist. And chances are, the people who matter most won’t judge you — they’ll cheer you on. So the next time that voice whispers, “What will they think?” Ask it: “Who’s they?”
If you can’t answer, go ahead and press publish anyway.
This post originally appeared on Medium and is edited and republished with author's permission. Read more of Teronie Donaldson's work on Medium.