Why I Can't Write My Own Worth (And How You Taught Me To Try Anyway).

Sitting by the Komodo Sea trying to write my worth into words, Gran, I remembered when you watched me shrink my own story until I barely recognised it.

Dear Gran,

I'm sitting at Puri Sari beach in Labuan Bajo, laptop balanced precariously on my knees, trying to write a proposal for a potential client. The view before me is breathtaking - turquoise water stretching toward a dozen small islands, wooden pinisi boats drifting like dreams across the horizon. Some are luxury vessels gleaming in the afternoon sun, others are weathered fishing boats chugging along with nets trailing behind them.

It should be inspiring. Instead, I'm staring at a blank page, paralysed.

Every sentence I type sounds mediocre. Bland. Like I'm apologising for taking up space instead of claiming the value I know I bring. I've been here for an hour, deleting more words than I've kept, and it's transported me back to that awful week eight years ago when I had to write my own reference.

You remember that time, don't you, Gran? When redundancy stripped away not just my job, but every ounce of confidence I thought I had?

When Everything I Thought I Knew Crumbled.

When you get made redundant, it's not just the job that goes. It hits your confidence, your identity, your sense of worth. Even if you saw it coming. Even if, deep down, you weren't happy there anymore.

I spiralled, Gran. Just like you used to worry I would.

I overthought everything - every little detail, every meeting I replayed in my mind. Why me? Did I do something wrong? Why wasn't I asked to move to the new office?

Despite knowing this was, objectively, a great outcome for me, self-doubt moved in like a fog. You always said I was terrible at recognising my own strengths - that I could list my weaknesses blindfolded but struggled to name a single thing I did well. Remember those school reports? Even when teachers praised me, I'd focus on the one area for improvement.

Every year at appraisal time, I'd downplay everything I'd done. But looking back now, Gran, I delivered significant, successful change programs. I led with passion. I brought humour, clarity, and grit. I got things done - really important things.

And yet... when I sat down to write about it? I made myself sound utterly mediocre.

The Hardest Thing I Had to Write.

Part of my settlement agreement included an agreed reference. The contract part? Easy. Signed in two days. Mutually respectful. No drama. But the reference?

They asked me to write it myself. And I froze.

I could write the most glowing reference for anyone on my team - I'd make them sound like they'd solo-landed on the moon. But for myself? I was completely stumped.

I sat at my laptop for days, Gran. Nothing.

On my morning runs, I'd come up with brilliant lines about my achievements. But when I got home, I'd type things like: "Caroline is a competent manager." "Caroline did a good job delivering x."

I mean... no. I led from the front. I was more than competent. I changed things, improved systems, transformed team culture. But ask me to explain that? I'd lose my voice entirely.

You would have sighed at me, wouldn't you? In that gentle way you had when you could see I was being my own worst enemy.

I even asked former colleagues - brilliant, articulate friends - to send me a few sentences. The paragraphs they wrote were incredible. But by the time I'd edited them down, they were bland again. Boring. Unremarkable.

Truth be told? I wouldn't have hired me based on what I'd written.

Is It a British Thing? A Girl Thing? A Me Thing?

I kept wondering: where does this come from, Gran? This need to make myself smaller?

You know how I am. I'm awful at complaining in restaurants. I'm worse at taking compliments. And I would never, ever send food back. Remember that time in Sri Lanka when my friend ordered shark fish that tasted like it had been stewed in something unspeakable? We paid for it, smiled politely, and said thank you.

When I started travelling, I tried to let go of some of that British politeness. Embrace the moment. Loosen the grip on being "appropriate" all the time. But it's a process, isn't it?

I hate having my picture taken - I'm barely in any family photos because of it. Catch me unaware, I look fine. Ask me to pose? Disaster. I do what Chandler from Friends does - look down, look up, panic written all over my face.

Meanwhile, I watch other cultures embrace their confidence so naturally. Asian tourists taking selfies with pure joy, posing and twirling without a care for what anyone thinks. Honestly, Gran? I admire it. I want a sprinkle of that self-assurance. That beautiful oblivion to judgment.

Overthinking What I Think People Think.

That's what I do constantly - overthink what I think people might be thinking about me.

Am I too old for this bikini? Too soft around the middle? Should I cut my hair short now that I'm past 50, like people keep suggesting?

When I first got to Bali all those years ago, I panicked about how I looked. Started doing yoga every morning and eight-minute abs like I was preparing for a photo shoot. As if I could undo 25 years of living, of childbearing, of midlife softness in three days.

Men don't seem to carry this burden, do they, Gran? They strut around with their bellies hanging out like Greek gods, completely unbothered by muffin tops or grey hair.

You used to tell me I was beautiful just as I was. "My darling girl," you'd say, "you're perfect exactly as you are." I wish I'd listened more closely.

The Advice That Changed Everything.

Eventually, I managed to cobble the reference together. Still doubting every word, I sent it to a friend's partner - smart guy, confident in that effortless way some people are.

I was dreading his feedback, preparing for criticism. But over a glass of wine, he gave it to me straight:

"You need to think like an overconfident boy."

I laughed nervously at first. But he was serious.

"If you meet 10% of the job requirements, you're perfect for it. They need you. You don't need to explain away the other 90%."

And I knew he was right, Gran. I've hired people based on personality and potential, more than perfect CVs. Job descriptions evolve. Roles change. But I'd been holding myself to impossible standards.

Then he added, completely deadpan: "You need to state your unique selling point. Like me: I come across smooth and traditional - but I'm actually dangerous and edgy."

I couldn't stop laughing. But I got it. He was showing me what confidence looks like when it doesn't apologise for existing.

It reminded me of something you used to say: "My darling girl, don't hide your light under a bushel."

The Night I Stopped Shrinking.

That night, I stopped over-editing myself. I sent in the reference as it was. It was approved immediately. No changes requested.

And you know what? Of course it was. I'm bloody good at what I do.

I've led cultural transformation programs for 11,000 people. I've delivered award-winning projects. I've rebuilt my life - twice - from scratch, and helped others do the same.

So why was I still making myself smaller, Gran?

You raised me to be brave, to speak up, to take up space. "My darling girl," you'd say when I was doubting myself, "you belong wherever you choose to be." But somewhere along the way, I learned to apologise for my own existence.

We women do this, don't we? We are more than "just good." We're exceptional. But we've been taught to diminish ourselves, to make others comfortable with our success.

As I sit here at Puri Sari, watching a luxury yacht glide past a humble fishing boat - both sharing the same magnificent sea - I'm reminded that worth isn't comparative. The fishing boat doesn't apologise for not being a yacht. It simply is what it is, perfectly.

I can hear your voice in the ocean breeze, Gran: "My darling girl, stop making yourself smaller. The world needs what you have to offer."

So I'm going to close this laptop, reopen that proposal, and write it like the confident woman you raised me to be. Not the woman who apologises for taking up space, but the one who knows she belongs in any room she enters.

When I get home to the mountains, I'll apply for opportunities where I only meet 50% of the requirements. Or maybe I'll finally back myself completely and build something entirely my own.

Either way, I'll be thinking less about what I think I can't do, and more about what I absolutely can.

You always saw my worth, even when I couldn't. "My darling girl," you'd say with that gentle smile, "you're braver than you know." Thank you for that gift, Gran. I'm finally learning to see it too.

From the quiet of the mountains, walking beside you.