Every so often I receive an e-mail from an academic website congratulating me for being referenced by one of its ‘esteemed’ members. The message also urges me to click on a very exclusive button reserved for people – like me – worthy of a 50% discount when becoming a permanent member of this prestigious incubator of promising minds.

I know for a fact that I never submitted any of my articles to this website, so the N. de Man who is being celebrated is most definitely not me. Therefore, there is either an elusive writer out there pretending to be me, or I am being suckered into a marketing ploy designed to target a very raw nerve.

Eventually I resign to concluding that whomever is trying to massage my ego must be a bot, so I hit the delete button and expel the e-mail to the digital purgatory of my trash bin.

As the message finds its final resting place alongside all the other e-mails in which N. de Man wins lotteries and luxury cruises, and is periodically wooed by hard working Nigerians eager to get me to invest in their dream, a little voice inside of me begs to reconsider. ‘What if an actual person stumbled upon one of my articles and actually really liked it? Or better still: found it floating around in cyber space, noticed its shimmering brilliance and couldn’t help but give it a home? What if I’m missing out on a Nobel Prize by being such a cynic?’

What if?   

There is probably someone out there right now gazing over a Nigerian river, building a profitable empire in his mind. What if all it takes for him to bridge the gap between the vision and the dream is a very small amount of cash and a vote of confidence from an overseas friend?

And surely, cruise ships are full of people who won their lotteries by surviving cancers or by double clicking on the right incoming mail. So why doesn’t that little voice of mine scream in protest when I exile their messages to my digital dustbin? Why does the nudge from an academic writers’ club speak to me on a much deeper level than the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity presented to me by a financial golden boy?

The answer is that I don’t want to be rich, I want to be read – and that’s what the annoying little voice in the back of my mind is responding to: the possibility of being loved for doing what I love most.

The problem with leaving potentials unattended, is that they risk falling into the wrong hands. There are those who prey on our frailties. In fact, there’s an entire industry out there that benefits handsomely from people getting stuck in the vortex of self-doubt. I am very aware of how life coaching is the second fastest growing industry in the world. There is a lot of money to be made from drawing clients into endless learning loops and keeping them there for as long as possible. There’s an even better version of you waiting at the end of round two. This time you’ll learn to let go of perfectionism, fears and limiting beliefs. Prepare to be pulled out of your state of oblivion by a ‘professional’ who went through his own murky transformation for the benefit of your metamorphosis. Make sure to click now though, before it’s too late. After all, good fortune has a sell-by date, an Instagram account and a very own YouTube channel these days.

If you’re a coach telling your clients you’re the ticket to their success, you shouldn’t be invested in getting them lost by withholding part of the map. Also, there is a fine line between being of service and servicing your own need to be seen. Identifying who is crying for attention is a good place to start when setting up shop as a professional ‘helper’.

I have nothing against proper support. There are plenty of amazing people out there. In fact, I owe a lot to the wisdom so generously laid out for me by therapists, yoga teachers and mentors who got me to appreciate the beauty of being lost. I do however have an issue with self-proclaimed prophets and gurus who get off on ‘saving’ others because it keeps them from dealing with their own shit. You don’t hold space for someone by faking a façade.

The irony is that we need to get over ourselves, in order to truly meet ourselves. It’s an intimate journey that doesn’t necessarily require an elaborate masterplan or an entire crew of assistants. Deep down, we know what-ifs allow us to bathe in soft blue waters that know of no horizons. We know they can be as real as we want them to be. It’s what it takes to manifest them that most frightens us – and it’s the fear of what crushing waves could do to our souls that keeps us from going in deep. But if a flower doesn’t need a dietician, a life coach and personal botanist to blossom, neither should we. It’s in our nature to grow in different directions. Writers eventually find their way through the muck. With a little help from their friends and an occasional mail from the phantom writers’ club to hold them in check.

The trick is to accept that annoying little voices simply squeal for attention because it’s what they do best. They are there to prevent all the what-ifs from falling into the wrong hands. Silencing them is as beneficial to finding your purpose as selling all your belongings and e-mailing the profits to a venture capitalist who doesn’t really exist. Both are as real as you need them to be, but only one is set to blossom.

If there’s one thing I know about annoying little voices it’s that they express a need to be loved. Making us think twice before deleting what might turn into a promising lead is just part of their service. Because even at a 50% discount, they are still 100% you. The muck is there for a reason. It keeps you grounded as you grow.