What Does Confidence Feel Like?

I’ve spent most of my life confusing confidence with performance.

You know the drill.
Say the clever thing. Time the self-deprecation just right.
Tell stories like they’re auditions.
Walk into rooms like you might belong, if only you posture hard enough.

That’s not confidence.
That’s camouflage.
A desperate bid to disappear inside a version of yourself someone else might love.

I’ve done it for decades.
I wore the mask so long it fossilized into my bone structure.
But now—right now—I’m peeling it off.

Because in a few hours, I’ll walk into the Austin Film Festival.
I’ll be surrounded by other writers, filmmakers, dreamers, monsters.
People with agents and deals and resumes and panelist nameplates.
People I admire. People who intimidate me. People who have no fucking clue who I am.

And I’m gonna walk in anyway.

Not because I think I’m better.
Not because I think I’m ready.
Not even because I think I belong.

I’ll walk in because I’ve earned the right to.

Confidence doesn’t come from your bio.
It comes from your bruises.

It’s not some fake-it-til-you-make-it trick.
It’s knowing you’ve bled for this.
Burned for this.
Sacrificed and stumbled and still showed up.

Confidence is the afterglow of continuing.

It’s sitting down at your desk when nobody’s waiting on pages.
It’s writing into the void.
It’s sending scripts into the ether and getting nothing back—but not quitting.
It’s the moments where you hate yourself and your work and your voice, and still find a way to speak again.

Confidence isn’t bravado. It’s history.
It’s your history.

And mine?

It’s brutal.
And holy.
And lonely.
And covered in dirt and ink and hospital wristbands and old rejection letters and texts from friends who didn’t make it out.

I’m confident because I’m still here.

That’s it.
That’s all.

That’s enough.

And when I walk into that building in Austin, I won’t be the loudest guy.
I won’t be the most connected.
But I’ll be the most me I’ve ever been.

And that?
That’s lethal.

Because confidence doesn’t need to shout.

It doesn’t beg to be picked.

It knows it’s a storm waiting for the right sky.

So if you’re wondering what confidence feels like?

It feels like this:

Not needing to prove anything.
Not needing to shrink for anyone.
Not needing to cosplay a version of yourself you think they’ll like.

It’s your voice, unfiltered.
Your eyes, steady.
Your presence, earned.

It’s walking into a room not hoping to be chosen, but choosing yourself before the door even opens.

That’s what I’m bringing to Austin.

Not a pitch.
Not a persona.

Just this.

The pages I wrote when I was breaking.
The stories I carried like armor.
The silence I survived.
The flame that didn’t go out.

The confidence of a man who’s still writing.
Still fighting.
Still here.