Today’s guest post comes from Sarah Terry. Sarah is a counsellor working in schools in the UK. She is also the author of “Inside the Teenage Mind” and hosts a YouTube channel where she gives mental health hints, tips and advice. Sarah also provides self-help online courses for a variety of mental health issues. You can learn more at www.sarahterry.co.uk.
I discovered I was an introvert around eight years ago when I literally felt like I was going mad. I had even been to my doctor to ask about early menopause and would often cry for no reason, pushing away those I loved.
I was working in a busy, open plan office at the time. My managers sat on the same desk pod as me and I constantly felt scrutinised. Although this wasn’t necessarily the case, my interpretation of the environment was such that I felt like a hopeless goldfish, doomed to provide entertainment to all passers-by. I would come home from work and cry, unable to vocally articulate to my (extroverted) husband what I was feeling, much less why.
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One of the most frequent questions I get from INFJs and INFPs who are thinking about becoming a coach has to do with imposter syndrome. And this makes a lot of sense, because when we imagine what being a coach would be like, we usually see ourselves giving clients advice and acting in the role of “expert.” If you look around at mainstream coaching programs, this view is encouraged. Aspiring coaches are urged to choose an uber-specific niche and get as much training as possible in order to fulfill this “expert” role.
I understand this point of view, because when I first started out as a coach, I was doing the very same thing. I felt really insecure, about my knowledge and my abilities. I felt a strong calling to help people, and I had always been a natural counselor to my friends and family, but when it came to setting up shop as an actual coach, all the fears and doubts crept in. I thought that people would expect me to be an expert, and the closer I could get to this expert status, the more confident I would feel about being a coach.
Flash forward to now. I’ve been coaching for over seven years, I have a packed coaching schedule every week, I’m booking people three months in advance, and I’m teaching aspiring coaches how to coach.
I’ve worked as a writing coach with INFJ and INFP writers for over seven years now, and I continue to see the same blocks over and over. Every time a writer comes to me with issues around feeling like they can’t get started, they can’t stick with one thing, they can’t follow through with something until the end, we peel back the layers and I always find the same myths about writing and creating—the exact same limiting beliefs—over and over again.
There’s a whole list of these damaging myths that run rampant through the mind of a struggling INFJ or INFP writer, but there is one I hear about more than any other. This myth is so insidious, and it undermines our creative efforts so effectively, because, on the surface, it sounds so reasonable. It seems so sensible and logical that it’s really, really hard for the INFJ or INFP writer to call bullshit on it. And as you read it here, you may even find yourself agreeing with it:
One of the most shame-inducing things about writing for INFJ and INFP writers is how they actually feel when they sit down to write. An INFJ or INFP writer might dream about writing when they’re not writing. They might feel resentful that work, family, kids, and the stresses of daily life all take away from the time they could be spending writing. They might even fantasize about going off to live in a little cabin in the woods, so they can spend all their time writing. But then, when they finally get that precious hour on a Sunday afternoon to sit down to write, they sit down and all they feel is…UGH.
This feeling of UGH manifests in many ways. For some writers, it’s a feeling of frozen numbness. They literally can’t get the words out. For other writers it feels like panic, even terror, and they have no idea why they’re having such an extreme reaction. And for others, the negative self-talk starts up in their brain, maybe only in whispers at first, but it’s sure to grow louder.