Rewriting the Inner Dialogue
Integrating Doubt, Cultivating Possibility
Join Foster x Prismara for a free workshop on Tuesday, April 1—Rewriting the Inner Dialogue, a somatic writing experience for creatives looking to shift their relationship with doubt and reconnect with their true voice.
There’s a voice inside me that always seems to arrive before I notice it. It’s quick, like a shadow, slipping in before I’ve even touched the page.
“You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“This isn’t good enough.”
“Who do you think you are?”
It’s so familiar, I used to mistake it for my own.
I spent years negotiating with that voice, trying to outsmart it. I thought if I got better, worked harder, earned my place, it would go away. But it didn’t. It just got more sophisticated. Instead of outright doubt, it started whispering practical concerns—
“There are other, more pressing things to do right now.”
“Wouldn’t it be smarter to wait until you’re really clear?”
“Maybe we should just think and plan a little longer.”
It knew how to sound reasonable, how to make me second-guess myself just enough to stop. It disguised itself as logic. It spoke in my own voice.
But when I really paid attention, I started to notice something: this voice didn’t come from the part of me that loved to create. It didn’t belong to the part of me that felt most alive when writing, sharing my stories, or dreaming something into existence.
It belonged to the part of me that was afraid.
And fear, I’ve learned, has a lot to say.
It took me a long time to understand that the voice wasn’t the problem. The problem was that I let it lead. That I treated it like the authority on my creative life, instead of what it actually was—an outdated survival mechanism trying to keep me from taking risks.
It was looking out for rejection, failure, embarrassment. And boy was it talented at this! It found them everywhere.
What this part didn’t know how to find—was incapable of finding—was joy.
There was another voice inside me, though. It didn’t shout. It didn’t argue. It didn’t try to convince me of anything.
It just knew.
It knew the deep satisfaction of letting an idea take shape. Knew the quiet thrill of following inspiration. Knew that creating is always worthwhile—regardless of the outcome. It didn’t push or demand my attention. It simply waited, steady and certain, trusting that I would eventually turn toward it. Unlike the inner critic, it never needed to shout. It just existed—calm, unwavering, steady.
I think we all have that voice. Actually, I know we all have that voice. We wouldn’t be writers and creatives if we didn’t.
It’s just harder to hear, because the inner critic is so loud. And for good reason—our brains are wired to keep us safe, not to encourage us to take creative risks.
But creativity isn’t about safety. It’s about aliveness. It’s about making space for what’s most true, even when it feels vulnerable. Maybe especially when it feels vulnerable.
There was a moment, not too long ago, when I almost didn’t share something that mattered to me. The critic had its hands around my throat, its voice persuasive, insistent. I was ready to listen.
But I hesitated. That familiar lump in my throat wasn’t just hesitation—it was a barrier, a well-worn reflex, a decades-old instinct to swallow my words before they could fully form. I had felt it so many times, always at the edge of saying something real… something honest.
I placed a hand on my chest, took a breath, and asked: What if, just this once, I followed the other voice? Not the one predicting failure—the one that trusted me to leap.
I hit send. And the world didn’t end.
In fact, that piece of writing—the one I almost didn’t share—connected me with people I never would have met otherwise. It sparked conversations I didn’t expect. It reminded me that the critic is rarely right about what actually matters.
Lately, I’ve been experimenting with different ways to shift that inner dialogue—not by silencing the critic, but by changing the way I listen. By noticing how it lands in my body. By understanding what it’s afraid of.
Gradually, I’ve come to recognize the lump in my throat, the butterflies in my belly, and the pounding in my chest not as warnings to retreat, but as signals that I’m standing at the edge of something real. That change is happening. That I am expanding.
And in those moments, I remind myself—fear may speak, but it doesn’t get the final word.
This is something I’d love to explore together. On Tuesday, April 1, I’m hosting Rewriting the Inner Dialogue: A Somatic Writing & Parts Work Experience — a collaboration between Foster and Prismara. This workshop is about deepening your relationship with the different voices within—both the doubt that stems from fear and the confidence that knows your creative worth. Through curiosity and embodied practice, we’ll explore how these voices show up in the body and shift how we engage with them—transforming the way we show up to the page or the project.
Let’s explore.
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