I Feel Like A Fraud


I felt like a fraud when I woke up this morning. I told Claudia Azula Altucher, “I feel like a fraud.”

We’re going to Dallas today. I’m going to go on a TV show and then speak at a conference.

If I thought rationally I would say, “I’m not a fraud”. But sometimes I think my background is so different and worthless that I’m too far off the map to ever find my way back.

So I feel like a fraud.

A fraud feels like everything he says is a lie.

A fraud feels like nobody would really want to listen to him if they really “knew”.

A fraud doesn’t really know how to sync up with everyone else.

A fraud is afraid to constantly disappoint people. Like the people might expect one thing but end up getting something horribly worse.

I over-prepare to avoid fraud-dom. I overthink everything I’m going to say. I tell myself, “I just want to help people” and after that it’s out of my control. But then I think that might be the sort of thing a fraud would say.

I tell myself, “It’s none of my business what people think of me,” but the reality is I often do.

Claudia spent the weekend proofreading a free book I’ve been giving away and about to load onto Amazon, The Choose Yourself Stories. It’s about the more personal stories that didn’t end up in Choose Yourself!

“You’re not a fraud,” she said. “I’ve just read all of your stories.”

But that doesn’t help. Sometimes 1+1 = 2. And sometimes 1+1 = blah blah blah. Means nothing. Nobody can convince me otherwise.

A fraud wants everything to freeze.


So he can catch up to what he’s supposed to be. Catch up to what? I don’t know. I’ll tell you when I get there.

One thing that helps me when I feel like this is to just focus on what I always write about:

The daily practice of physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual health. If all I do is just focus on that today, then tomorrow will take care of itself. The daily practice sends secret messages to the DNA in my cells.

But sometimes I can’t help it, I feel like a little boy pretending to be an adult.

A little boy is not big enough to be a fireman. A little boy can’t put out the fires. He’s scared and watches the fire while he waits for the real firemen to show up.

The flames lick the sky with every color. The flames twist the air into dark orange and yellow and purple sculptures. The flame is a thousand works of art compacted into minutes that then disappear.

I’m a little boy watching the massive flames around me.

I think the rule is it takes 10,000 hours of dedicated practice to be the best in the world at something.

I’ve put in 403,000 hours of dedicated practice being me. I haven’t really practiced anything else so this will have to do.

Ugh, I feel like that is followed by “and that’s good enough!” Blah!

But, whatever…a good fraud like me has permission to do whatever he wants. It’s too tiring to play adult all day long every day. I quit.

Kiss me.