Most of the time when we say “I can’t,” what we actually mean is “I’ve never.” But our brains don’t label it like that. They flag it as risk, embarrassment, exposure. And if you’ve been demonstrating capabilities for years, that feeling can hit like proof you shouldn’t be there.

I’ve come to see this as one of the most misunderstood parts of imposter syndrome. We treat it like it’s a flaw, when a lot of the time it’s simply the brain trying to protect you from unfamiliar territory. It can’t always tell the difference between “I’ve never done this before” and “I’m not meant for this.” Both feel the same inside. Both create the same hesitation. Both sound like the same sentence when under pressure.

This has been true for me as I stepped out of farming and moved into the work I do now: facilitating women’s events, coaching, and running workshops for workplace teams. That transition wasn’t just a change of work. It was a change in how visible I needed to be, how much I needed to back my own voice, and how willing I needed to be to be seen as someone leading, not just someone contributing quietly from the side.

When you’ve been the “capable one,” starting again feels like risk

Farm life has a way of shaping you. Not just your skill set, but your default settings. It trains you to be practical, resilient, solution-focused, and steady when the pressure is constant and the variables keep changing. You learn to get on with it. You learn to adapt. You learn to handle hard things without a lot of fuss. And you learn, very quickly, that the jobs still need doing whether you feel like it or not.

It’s a humble industry. You don’t make it about you. You just do what needs doing. I still respect that part of myself. But there’s also a cost that can come with it. Over time, the “capable one” can become your whole operating system.

You’re the one who keeps up and remembers everything. You think ahead, keep things smooth, don’t make a fuss, and hold the emotional load as well as the practical load. You become reliable in a way that people know they can lean on. And sometimes it becomes normal that you’re there for everything else, but you don’t get to be the one who needs support.

So when you start thinking about stepping into something new, it doesn’t just feel like a business move or a career move. It can feel like you’re stepping out of a role you’ve been rewarded for. Like you’re breaking an unspoken agreement. Even if no one says it out loud, the pressure is real. Not just the fear of failing at the new thing, but the fear that choosing something else makes you disloyal. Like you’re turning your back on a life that fed you, shaped you, and gave you plenty to be grateful for.

So the decision to step out didn’t feel neutral. It felt loaded. And the question in my head was simple: Who am I to do something different… and what if I fail at it?

I didn’t step away because I couldn’t cope

I didn’t step out of the roles I had through farming because I couldn’t do it anymore. I could. I was good at it.

But being good at something doesn’t automatically mean it’s still right for you. And coping isn’t the same as living. I’d spent a long time being functional, capable, dependable, and “fine.” Somewhere along the way, I started noticing that fine had a flatline to it. Just this quiet disconnection from myself. The kind you can ignore for a long time because you’re still getting everything done.

What shifted wasn’t just workload. It was an internal honesty. I started seeing that the biggest weight wasn’t always the work itself, it was the way I was holding it. The version of me that had been built over years to manage pressure, meet expectations, and keep things steady had become very strong… and very tight. It worked beautifully for survival. It just wasn’t spacious enough for my next chapter.

That realisation is uncomfortable because it doesn’t come with a clear plan. It comes with a feeling: something in me has changed, and the old way doesn’t fit anymore.

The fear wasn’t a stop sign. It was a first-time sign.

When I started leaning towards facilitating and coaching, fear came with me. Not fear like “I’m in danger.” Fear like “I’m exposed.” It was the fear of being seen. Of not being polished enough. Of walking into rooms where people are looking at you like you’re the one who’s meant to lead, and having that split-second thought: What if I don’t know what to say? What if I’m not actually the person who should be here?

And for a while, I made the same mistake a lot of women make. I treated fear as evidence. Evidence that I wasn’t ready. Evidence that I was getting ahead of myself. Evidence that I should stay where I was already proven.

I wasn’t inexperienced with people. I’d facilitated discussion groups on farms, run team trainings, and been in the thick of the human stuff for years. But this was different. This wasn’t me doing it inside the safety of a role. This was me stepping out front with my name on it. And because it came from passion, I didn’t want to cock it up.

But the truth is, fear doesn’t only show up when something is wrong. It also shows up when something is new. And “new” can feel like a threat when you’ve spent a lifetime building competence in one world. It doesn’t automatically register as opportunity. It registers as risk.

The thing is, the fear didn’t mean I couldn’t do it. It meant I hadn’t done it like this before. It meant I was in my first reps.

Doing the work was easy. Being seen was the stretch.

One of the bigger shifts for me was realising that farming doesn’t require visibility in the same way. You can be excellent, valuable, and a driving force without being “out front.” In fact, being too visible can feel uncomfortable in farming. The culture respects people who just do the job, handle their responsibilities, and don’t make themselves the centre of attention. And there’s something I genuinely admire about that.

But when you move into facilitating, coaching, and leading rooms, you don’t get to hide behind getting things done. Presence matters. Using your voice matters. Holding the space matters. And being seen becomes part of it.

That can feel confronting if you’ve built your operating system around being useful and dependable without needing attention. It’s a different kind of contribution. It’s also a different kind of exposure.

So yes, imposter syndrome showed up. Not because I was pretending, or because I didn’t have anything to offer. But because I was stepping into a new level of visibility and leadership, and I needed runs on the board to learn I was safe there.

I wasn’t a fraud. I was learning.

This is where I want to be really clear, because I think we often overcomplicate this. When I began facilitating women’s events and workplace workshops, I wasn’t suddenly starting from zero. I had lived experience. I’d spent years observing what pressure does to people, to communication, to leadership, to decision-making. I’d seen the patterns that show up when someone’s over-functioning, running on empty, or carrying more than they care to tally up.

What I didn’t have was history in these rooms. I hadn’t done it with this level of responsibility before. I hadn’t done it with people looking to me to lead the experience, not just participate in it. I just hadn’t done it enough times for my body to relax.

That’s what “I’ve never” feels like. It feels like self-doubt. It sounds like, who do you think you are? It feels like the urge to over-prepare, over-explain, and over-perform, just so no one questions you. It can feel like wanting to shrink back into the world where you already know the rules.

But “I’ve never” is not the same as “I can’t.” One is a lack of reps. The other is a story.

What actually helped (and it wasn’t a pep talk)

I didn’t think my way out of imposter syndrome. I did two practical things.

First, I started telling the truth more accurately. Instead of letting “I can’t” run the show, I named what was actually true: “I’ve never done it like this before.” That one sentence reduces shame immediately because it turns it into a learning curve instead of a character flaw. It doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you’re in new territory.

Second, I kept showing up. One workshop. One event. One room. One conversation. One step at a time. And slowly, the same environments that once felt intimidating became familiar. Familiarity builds confidence. Reps build safety. Not because you become a different person, but because your body stops treating it like danger.

That’s the part people miss. Confidence isn’t a personality trait. It’s often a by-product of doing the reps. It’s no different to training. You don’t walk into a gym and lift heavy on day one. How do you expect to deadlift 120kg if you haven’t done enough reps at 25kg first? You build capacity, one lift at a time.

If you’re in a transition season, this might be the reframe you need

If you’re in that in-between space where the old way doesn’t fit anymore, but the new way still feels exposing, consider this: feeling like an imposter isn’t always a sign you’re in the wrong place. It might be a sign you’re early in the right place.

Your brain will try to label it as “I can’t” because that feels safer. Final feels safer. But the truth might simply be: “I’ve never done it like this before.” And that’s a completely different reality.

So where are you calling it “I can’t,” when it’s actually “I’ve never… yet”? What would change if you stopped treating first-time as a red flag, and started treating it as the cost of entry?

Because sometimes fear isn’t a warning. Sometimes it’s just the feeling of doing something new while you’re still building runs on the board.

And that new ground? It usually holds the part of you you haven’t had room to meet yet.

Want support while you’re in it?

If you’re in that season where you’ve outgrown the old way of operating, but you’re not sure how to step into what’s next, my women’s events and 1:1 coaching are just for that.

If you want to talk it through, send me a message I’d love to hear from you.

The Difference Between I Can’t and I’ve Never”