When You're Afraid of Being Seen Trying

And you're scared the silence means something

We found it by accident.

A friend had mentioned a £1 comedy night in Covent Garden, and as two Aussies still flinching at the brutal pound-to-AUD exchange rate, we were sold.

That night, Ben and I ended up in a cramped basement, squeezed between strangers on cheap fold-out chairs.

As I fidgeted in my seat, peeling my New Balances off the sticky floor, I wondered what the heck we’d gotten ourselves into.

But as soon as the host bounded on stage, the laughs started rolling and didn’t stop.

Since then, we’ve made a habit of stumbling across cheap comedy nights in London. (A+ date night, 10/10 would recommend).

One Wednesday, we dropped by the Angel Comedy Club, a tiny room above a bustling pub.

“Weeeelcome to New Material Night,” said the host as he grabbed the mic.

New Material Night is exactly what it sounds like: a lineup of comedians testing out the fresh, unpolished jokes they’d scribbled in their notebooks or dumped in their Notes app — (usually about their dating life, dead-end jobs, or some guy named Dave who got the house in the divorce).

“Is it too late to leave?” I whispered to Ben.

The doors click shut behind us in response.

We watched comedian after comedian step onto that small, squeaky stage, holding scraps of paper or phones in hand, delivering lines they hoped would work.

(Side note: I’m the worst person to test material on. I will pity-laugh at anything just to break the silence.)

In between the chuckles and the cringes, I couldn’t stop thinking about their courage.

The audacity to say to themselves, “I think this could be something," and test it out loud.

In public.

In a room full of strangers who will absolutely let you know when something’s not working.

It made me think of the quote:

“Don’t be afraid to be seen trying.”

It’s become a rally cry for creators and business owners to post their work and openly strive for their goals even if they’re scared of looking ‘cringe.’

But it’s one thing to repost that quote and whisper, “urgh, so true,” as you make it your screensaver.

It’s another thing entirely to live it.

To be the one who tries — out loud, in public — with no guarantees of applause.

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It’s drummed into us that failure is inevitable.

It’s how we grow. (Or whatever.)

But most of us aren’t afraid of failure itself.

We’re afraid of being seen failing.

We want the punchline to land the first time. The post to go viral. The comments to roll in. The offer to sell out.

We want to glide onto the scene as a fully formed expert who gets roaring applause— not someone fumbling through a first draft.

Because the algorithm rarely shows us ‘drafts.’

It dishes up highlight reels. Polished outcomes. Content that’s engineered for engagement and already working.

We rarely see the version where someone’s still throwing spaghetti and meatballs on the wall to see what sticks.

Because trying is awkward.

It’s vulnerable.

It’s getting up on stage in front of real people with your half-finished idea and hoping it lands.

(And wishing the sticky floor would swallow you whole when it doesn’t.)

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I always tell my clients they need to validate their offer before pouring thousands of hours (and dollars) into scaling it.

‘Validating’ is basically New Material Night for business owners.

You dangle your offer in front of your target audience, watch for reactions, and hope for a laugh — or in this case, multiple Stripe notifications.

If you get people wanting to pay real money for it, congrats. You’re ready to build and scale.

If it bombs?

You pour yourself wine, eat cake the size of your face, then retreat to the drawing board.

I give this advice all the time. I coach my clients through it. I know it’s necessary.

And yet…

I’m scared to follow it.

I don’t want to get on the proverbial stage and see blank stares reflected at me.

I don’t want to launch something, hear crickets, then have to sheepishly tell people, “Umm yeah, no one wanted it.”

I don’t want to post something I believe in, and it only gets 5 views. (2 of which are my mum and husband — love you, mean it.)

Because WHAT IF it confirms my worst fears that I’m not talented, or funny, or worth learning from?

Two years ago, I remember sitting on a brand-new launch copy framework.

It wasn’t something many people were talking about yet, and I knew it was good.

But (ironically) I didn’t fully have the words to put it out there without it sounding half-baked.

So I didn’t.

I drafted it. Re-drafted it. And now it’s buried somewhere in my Google Drive graveyard.

All because I was scared to test it before it was perfect, and terrified of what silence might mean.

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Comedy nights always remind me of something I’m still learning the hard way:

Getting better means trying — sometimes badly — in public.

This is the job.

This is the process.

I think about the comedy specials I’ve watched and loved online — Ali Wong, Mike Birbiglia, Iliza Shlesinger.

They all started here.

Because you don’t get the six-figure Netflix special or sell out worldwide tours without first bombing in sticky basements and grimy pubs.

I saw it firsthand last winter when we took our friends Sarah and James to the comedy club and saw Micheal freaking Mcintyre walk on stage.

(“He’s the UK’s Jimmy Fallon,” James whispered to Sarah, for anyone else playing catch-up.)

This is a guy who’s sold out Wembley Stadium. Who’s performed in front of the royal family. Who has multiple TV specials.

And yet — there he was. Performing on a tiny stage in a grimy basement on a random Tuesday night. Testing new material in front of an audience who’d paid £1 or less.

Because even he — after all the sold-out tours and standing ovations — still has to go back to New Material Night and risk silence.

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Being seen trying is terrifying.

Especially when everyone else looks like they’re gliding from milestone to milestone
while you’re just a sweaty, disheveled mess, trying to stay in the game.

You’re risking the fact that, contrary to what your mum says, maybe you’re not that special. Or talented. Or funny.

But most people aren’t gliding.

You just haven’t seen their drafts.

Chances are, you ‘discovered’ them long after they’d been testing and trying when no one was watching.

Sometimes, when I find a creator I’m in awe of, I scroll allllll the way back to the start of their feed. (Yes, I’m that person.)

And as I scroll, I can trace the evolution — from clunky content to the moment their voice shifts, their style sharpens, and they start wearing their creativity like something custom-fit.

I’ve seen it in my own journey, too.

A while ago, I decided I wanted to stretch my storytelling skills beyond writing and try making videos.

I had all these ideas — stories I’d scribbled in my Notes app, B-roll clips clogging up my storage, moments I wanted to capture, lines I could already hear in my head.

But I didn’t post anything for months.

I’d record something, then rewatch it with my face in my hands.

I’d obsess over the lighting. Overthink the audio. Re-record my voiceovers twelve times until I hated the sound of my voice.

But mostly, I was scared of flopping. Scared of being ‘cringe.’ Scared of being seen trying.

Eventually, I got sick of my excuses and just hit publish.

Aaand… nothing happened.

No one clapped. I didn’t go viral. And the algorithm didn’t shower me with a confetti cannon filled with likes and comments.

But I also didn’t die.

The silence wasn’t soul-crushing — just… quiet.

And once the panic wore off, I realised I could do it again.

And again.

And again.

Until the panic turned into practice, and posting no longer felt like an adrenaline spike.

Now, I edit faster. I know when to cut a clip, what moments to keep in, and how to shape something that actually sounds like me.

But none of that would’ve happened if I hadn’t let the early videos be rough.

If I hadn’t hit publish when it was still shaky.

If I hadn’t given myself permission to show up and just try.

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There will be seasons where you feel like the only one still fumbling.

Like everyone else has found their thing — their rhythm, their voice, their audience — and you’re just here, trying your best not to choke on the silence.

But trying is the work.

It's how you sharpen your instincts.

How you learn what lands and what doesn’t.

How you build something that feels like yours.

Even the ones you admire had a messy middle, too.

You just didn’t see it.

So if you’re scared of looking like the one who’s always trying, but never quite making it —

This one’s for you.

The silence doesn’t mean you’re not cut out for it.

It means you’re doing the hard part that most people avoid.

Because the jokes that land, the videos that resonate, the offers that convert — almost never start off fully-formed.

They’re shaped on tiny stages.

Tested in front of nearly-empty rooms.

And built by people brave enough to try, even when no one claps yet.

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