We all want to be more confident.
It's the model we're shown in movies: the hero who's never caught off guard, who always knows what to say.
Less so for women, admittedly. Clichés often present vulnerability as a feminine charm.
But what is confidence really for?
Why is looking sure of yourself supposed to be better?
To convince? To sell?
Probably.
I've noticed that people prefer to listen to (and therefore follow) those who seem sure of themselves. Even when they're talking nonsense.
If you have a big decision to make, financial or medical, you'll tend to listen to the person who sounds certain, categorical.
As if their certainty could offset your worry.
They couldn't be that sure of themselves if it were all smoke and mirrors, could they?
Well, yes. That's exactly the point.
Because salespeople of all stripes – and I'm including politicians – have figured out this mechanism and exploit it to their advantage.
And since we see them succeed, we tell ourselves we should do the same.
Except that false confidence is like a cardboard house: looks great from the outside, but when you try to live in it... not so much.
At the first storm, it all collapses.
So what good is confidence if it can't get you through the hard times?
That's the subject of a feature screenplay I wrote a few years ago:
In The Stagemaster, you discover that the strongest character isn't the intimidating director, nor the scheming butler.
It's a shy, frightened little woman who spends her time apologizing. And who ends up carrying everyone on her shoulders.
I genuinely believe that real strength is vulnerability.
The more you let things reach you, the more you learn.
Faking it only impresses those who are faking it too.