I admire people with confidence. Of course, it doesn't always mean they have anything to actually be confident about. I heard someone mention the Dunning-Kruger effect the other day, and I've definitely come across a few people in my life who have it.The Dunning-Kruger effect is when someone who is highly unskilled continually overestimates how good they are, so they sail through life happily overestimating themselves, because they're not skilled enough to see how unskilled they really are. I don't think I'm like that, and I don't think that you are either. If anything, maybe you're a little more the opposite.There's a name for that too. Imposter syndrome is when you feel like you're not as good as everyone seems to think you are, and any day now they're going to figure it out, and maybe you wish you could be a little more sure of yourself, a little more confident. So tonight, I'm going to help you find sleep, but we're also going to try to build you up a little along the way, because that drowsy, drifting state that we sink into on the way to sleep happens to be the very state where the mind is most open, where that harsh little voice in your head finally quiets down, and something kinder can get in.So as I walk you towards sleep tonight, we'll loosen a little of that self-doubt as we go. You'll drift off either way, but you may just wake up a little kinder to yourself, and a little more confident than you were. But first, as always, I need to say the thing I always say.This episode uses relaxation techniques and a little light hypnotherapy, so please ensure that you are somewhere safe before you settle in to listen. Ideally, that's your own comfortable bed and not anywhere. You need to stay alert.And before we begin, a quick thank you to everybody in the Snoozeville Sleep Club. You keep the show going, and I'm grateful for you. And if you're not a member, but the show is helping you sleep, and you'd like to support it, all the details are in the show notes.And if that's not for you right now, there are other ways to help. A rating, or a review, or just following the show. Mostly though, I'm just glad that you're here listening.So now, it's time to get you settled. Take a moment to adjust anything that needs adjusting. Maybe your pillow needs fluffing.Maybe you need to punch it up a little. Or your blankets need pulling up. Or there's something pressing into your shoulder that needs moving.This is your time, your space. Make it exactly right for you. And let your body settle, really settle. Not just lie down, but let your weight fully rest into the surface beneath you. And notice where your body makes contact with the bed. Your head against the pillow.Your shoulders and your back against the mattress. Your legs, your arms. All of you supported, held.You don't have to do anything right now, except exist here, in this safe, quiet space. And from this moment forward, all you need to do is to listen to my voice. Let my voice be your anchor.Let it guide you deeper into relaxation with every word. You don't need to do anything. Figure anything out or even stay fully alert.In fact, if your attention drifts or you find yourself fading in and out, that's perfect. That means it's working. So if you're ready, let's begin.I'd like to take you on a journey tonight. And it starts with a boat. The kind of boat that you may never have seen, called a narrow boat.They come from England and they're built for the canals there. The boats are long and narrow, of course. Some of them 50 or 60 feet long, but slim enough to slip through the narrow channels.Inside, they're a whole little home. A snug bedroom, tiny kitchen, a little sitting area, wood stove, windows, looking out at the water. And they move so slowly, just walking pace, drifting through green fields and under old stone bridges, past cows and willows and villages.And let's imagine that you're like me. You've been watching videos of these trips for years. Late at night, when you couldn't sleep, other people's peaceful voyages playing on your screen.The water, the countryside, the calm of it. And every time, some quiet part of you thought, I would love to do that. But you never did. Because how could you? You wouldn't have the first idea. You'd crash it. You'd embarrass yourself. But then one night, in a moment that felt a little crazy, you booked one. A whole week. You put down the money.And it was non-refundable. And by the time your heart started pounding, it was already done. And now, the day has come.And you're standing on the towpath, looking at the boat that is yours for the week. And you cannot believe you agreed to do this. Your heart is going. Every part of you wants to turn around. But the money's paid. And some braver, older part of you knows.You at least have to try. The man from the boatyard is showing you around. And he's kind. And he's clearly done this a thousand times. He shows you the tiller, how to steer, how you push it the opposite way to where you want to go. He shows you the throttle, how to start it, how to stop, how to work a lock when you come to one.And you're nodding and trying to take it all in. And you're pretty sure that you will remember none of it. But you're also noticing how adorable it is.That little galley with its tiny sink and its neat little cupboards. The bed tucked into the far end. The wood stove.It's like a dollhouse that you can live in. He hands you the keys. He wishes you well.And then he walks back up the towpath. And he's gone. And it's just you.So you put your things away first to steady yourself. You stow your clothes in the little cupboards. And you set your food in the galley.Put a book by the bed. And with everything in its place, the boat feels already a tiny bit like yours. And then there's nothing left to do but the thing itself.So you go through the steps. Every one. Exactly as he showed you.Talking yourself through it. You start the engine. And it catches and rumbles low and steady under your feet.You go out and untie the ropes. Front and back. And coil them aboard the way he showed you.You take the tiller in your hand. And you ease the throttle forward. Gently.So gently. And then the boat begins to move. And you're doing it.The bank is sliding past. You're steering. You're wobbling a bit.Correcting. Overcorrecting. And then finding it. But you're moving. Out along the calm green water. And no one is helping you.And you have not crashed. And you have not embarrassed yourself. You did every step. You can't quite believe it. You did the thing that you were sure you couldn't do. And there at the tiller, with the water opening out ahead of you, a small quiet thought arrives.That maybe that's all confidence ever is. It's not a feeling that you wait to have. It's not something other people are simply born with. It's just this. Doing the thing and discovering on the other side of it that you could. You haven't gone far when you see it ahead.Your first lock. You've been dreading this part. A lock is how a canal climbs a hill. A kind of watery staircase. Two great wooden gates hold back the water. And inside is a chamber that fills or empties to lift your boat up or lower it down. And your heart, which had just started to settle, picks up again. And there's nothing to do but try. So you bring the boat in toward the bank and you bump the side with a soft thud and wince. But no harm is done. These old boats are built for a few bumps. And you tie up and you climb off with the little handle that you use to open the gates. And you stand in front of this enormous old wooden lock. And for a moment, you have absolutely no idea what you're doing. And that's when you notice the woman.She's on a boat just behind yours. An older woman with silver hair and a sun-faded hat. And she's clearly done this a thousand times.And she calls over and asks if it's your first time. And you laugh and you admit that yes, it is. And you haven't got the faintest idea where to start. And she doesn't laugh at you. She just climbs off her own boat and comes over and shows you which paddle to lift first. And which way to wind the handle.And she lets you do it yourself, standing beside you. And when you start to wind the wrong one, she just says, other side, love. And you switch.And it's fine. No fuss. No judgment.Just a little water going the wrong way for a moment. Easily fixed. And here's the thing that you notice.Standing there in the sun, working this great old lock with a stranger's kind help. You don't mind. You got it wrong in front of someone.And you don't mind at all. There's no hot flush of shame. No replaying it later.You just laughed and she laughed and you fixed it. And that was that. Because out here, as it turns out, nobody expects you to already know.Everyone was new once. Getting it a bit wrong, it's simply how a person learns a thing that they've never done before. The water rises, slow and green.Lifting your boat gently up to the chamber until it's level with the canal beyond. You swing the far gates open. You climb back aboard. And you ease out through the open gates into the next stretch of water. And you call your thanks. Back to the woman and she waves you off with a smile and wishes you a good trip. And then it's just you again. Out on the quiet water. One lock behind you. The thing you dreaded most. Done. Not perfectly.But done and survived. And honestly. Kind of great.And you feel that flutter in your chest settle back down into something warm and steady. And pleased. You're getting the hang of this. Not by being perfect at it. Just by doing it. One thing at a time. And being kind to yourself about the wobbles. And now the canal opens up ahead of you. Long and straight and calm. And you settle in. There's nothing to do now but steer. And steering has become easy.The boat knows what it's doing. And so it turns out. To you.The bank slides slowly by. Willows trail their long fingers in the water. The field of cows lifts their head to watch you pass. Unhurried. Chewing. And then they lose interest. The sun is warm on your shoulders. And the only sounds are the low steady rumble of the engine. The soft parting of the water at the bow.And somewhere in the reeds. Birds. And you think.Drifting along like this. About all the videos you watched. All those perfect trips.And you notice that yours hasn't been perfect. You bumped the bank. You fumbled the lock.And you've been steering in gentle zigzags half the morning. But it doesn't matter. Even slightly.Because those videos were the good bits of their journey. The edited parts. The sunlit moments that someone chose to keep.Nobody films the bumps. Nobody films standing at the lock not knowing what to do. And yet.That was the best part of your whole morning. The woman. And the laugh.And figuring it out. The imperfect part was the real part and the real part was better than perfect ever could have been. You don't need the flawless voyage. Nobody actually has one. They just have one that they trimmed the mistakes out of. And somewhere in the slow green quiet of the afternoon, an old voice drifts up. You know the one.The voice from years ago. Maybe a particular person. Maybe a feeling you absorbed somewhere along the way.The one that always said that you weren't the type. Not adventurous. Not capable.The voice that would have told you with total certainty that you could never take a boat out alone. And out here with the lock behind you and the tiller in your hand and the water opening ahead, you can finally look at that voice clearly and ask a simple question. Was it ever actually true? That voice was so sure but wrong.It was always just someone's opinion or an old fear or a story that got told so many times it started to sound like a fact. It was never a fact. You can let the old voice go now.Let it drift off behind you down the canal into the distance, growing smaller with every turn of the engine. And the afternoon softens. The light begins so slowly you barely notice to turn from the bright white gold of midday towards something warmer.The shadows of the willows stretch a little longer across the water. The air cools. The cows are lying down in the far field now and the boat carries you on.Gentle and slow through the long golden hush of a summer night. There's no hurry to get anywhere for now. Just take it in.The slow water, the warm light, the easy weight of the tiller and the deep settling quiet of a day that went well. And when the light has gone gold and low and the evening is settling soft over the water, you'll find your place for the night. A quiet stretch of bank under a big old tree with nothing around but fields and the last bird song of the day. You'll bring the boat in slow and gentle because you've got the feel of it now. And you'll tie the boat up and turn off the engine. And then the quiet comes flooding in.That sudden total quiet after a whole day of the engine's low rumble. The silence rushing in to fill the space it leaves. And it's so deep, so soft.Just the water moving gently against the hull. A breath of wind through the leaves above you and nothing else at all. The whole world gone still and golden and quiet.And you standing on the deck of your own little boat in the middle of it at the end of your first day. And you feel it now. How tired you are.That good tiredness. The pleasant bone-deep heaviness that comes after a day of doing something real. Your body has done a lot today.It's ready to rest. So you step down into the cabin. Into your snug little home on the water.You light the small lamp and it fills the space with a warm glow. Soft on the wooden walls. And outside the windows the dusk deepens slowly to blue.So cozy in here. So small and warm and safe. And completely yours. Everything you need. All within arm's reach. The whole world narrowed down to this one warm lit room.You make your way to the bed tucked into the end of the boat. And you climb in. And the sheets are cool.And then warm. And the bed is soft. And you lie back.And let your head sink into the pillow. And pull the covers up. And feel the boat rocking so gently.Just the faintest sway as the water moves beneath the hull. Lifting you. Lowering you.The way you were rocked a long, long time ago. The oldest, softest motion. And the sound of the water lapping quietly against the side of the boat.Right there beside your head. Steady. Soft.And endless. Outside the little windows the night has come down over the countryside. Along the bank is a drift of bluebells.The color deepening to violet in the dusk. On the water nearby the ducks have tucked themselves in for the night. Drifting in the reeds at the water's edge.Rising and falling with the same slow water that's rocking you. The whole world is settling down. And above you, through the great old oak that leans over your boat, you can see the sky.And through the gaps, the stars. Coming out one by one. More and more of them.The longer you look. And the moon. Rising slow and silver over the fields.And your little boat. Bobbing ever so gently. Beneath it all.The faintest sway. The water murmuring against the wall. Cradled on the canal under the oak and the moon and the slowly turning stars.And as sleep begins to gather you in, your mind drifts softly to tomorrow. And there, right at the edge of sleep, a last quiet thought comes to you. A gentle, drifting, half-dreaming thought.That maybe you've had it backwards all this time. All those years of waiting. Waiting to feel confident before you tried anything.Never came. Waiting like that. Because it was always the other way around.You don't wait to feel confident. And then do the thing. You do the thing. And the confidence comes after. Confidence was never the key that unlocked the door. It was what you found waiting on the other side.And the thought settles over you. Warm and soft as the blanket. And your eyes grow too heavy to open.And your breathing slows. And the last of the day lets go of you. You are already half-dreaming of green water and open locks.And the long, slow miles to come. And the boat rocks gently on the dark canal. The bluebells nod on the bank.The moon climbs slow through the branches of the old oak and lays its light across the water. And you drift.