Why I No Longer Begin My Sentences with "I Think"

On confidence and taking up space

New headshots from Sage Collective to ring in this new era of confidence

A few weeks ago, I went to the county fair in my hometown for the first time in 8 years. I stood on the dirt track with my husband, waiting for the concert to start. Kids I used to babysit and younger siblings of my classmates walked around me with cups of beer in their hands.

I recounted who stumbled past me to my mom the next day, incredulous.

“But they’re babies!” I said.

“Well, not any more?” she replied.

The thing about my hometown is that time always seems frozen in place. I am not a young professional building her writing career when I’m there; I am an uncomfortable teen scared of everything. These other kids did not hold on up their end of the deal—how did these people younger than me become adults when I often feel like a stunted version of myself?

I struggle with conceptualizing myself as a person who was formerly someone else. That the days have marched forward and I have been changed and I am now a version of me that knows things, understands herself, feels driven and capable and a little less fearful. That teenager still feels so present, even as I’ve made space for the me I have become.

This disbelief in myself was at its most intense at the beginning of my career. I felt an inherent emptiness in my lack of professional experience, which wasn’t necessarily incorrect at first; it takes nourishment to grow. But I kept gaining that experience, writing more and meeting more people and understanding more of what works and what doesn’t, and I still felt like I hadn’t earned respect. My body became stronger the more I learned, yet my perceptions of myself stayed the same.

I struggle with conceptualizing myself as a person who was formerly someone else.

Something changed within me this year. I started to understand how much of this energy was self-inflicted. That I was taking myself out before anyone around me had a chance to consider my capabilities.

It began with noticing how often I began my sentences with the phrase, “I think.”

“I think I like that photo.”

“I think they’re a great writer.”

“I think this strategy will work.”

“I think” was a way to soften my conviction, to qualify that it was okay to take my opinions lightly because I wasn’t throwing my entire weight behind them.

The phrase rose like bile every time I opened my mouth, even as I gained more confidence to speak up in rooms I knew I had earned the right to be in.

Have you ever stopped to take inventory of how you communicate with yourself?

“I think” loomed louder and louder in my mind. My insides constricted trying to keep it from escaping my throat. I felt physically weaker, like my ideas losing power took every ounce of physicality I had with them.

My body would shrink away from itself, and the distance between who I felt myself to be and who I thought myself to be became untenable. I’ve been working to remove “I think” from my vocabulary ever since.

My boss has taught me how to be thoughtful with language. She’s an economist with words, each earning its rightful place. My delete button is most active right before I send her something I’ve written. I strive to find purpose like her.

“I think” is to be lazy with language. It’s a meaningless filler that serves to frame my thoughts in a way that feels less threatening. A strong writer claims her space on the page. Otherwise, why would anyone listen?

I resolved to stop starting my sentences with “I think” and I feel myself sit straighter. Every inch of muscle fiber activates. There’s a brightness in my chest that grows each time I allow myself and my ideas to take up space. It grows even more when I realize I am surrounded by people who want to listen.

I’ve allowed myself the space to feel sure of myself as a writer, to indulge in believing that I have something interesting to say and that I’m no longer a small child wandering through the scary halls of Corporate America. I’ve finally become someone who is not constantly worried everyone else sees her as a bumbling idiot; rather, I’m someone who is no longer thinking about other people perceiving me at all. I care more about providing something worthwhile to perceive.

That awareness of language on a molecular level has changed my approach to writing. Each word earns its place. Even as I draft this essay, I catch myself wandering into meaningless language, passive voice that dilutes the thickness of my language. My language that I believe earned a place on this page. It’s that act of noticing that tells me that time has past and I have grown and that scared teenager inside me quiets a bit.

It feels much deeper than just thinking I have the knowledge and skills that have earned consideration. It’s inherently knowing that I am capable of creating something worth listening to. Even when it’s not there in the moment, that knowledge and skill will carry me to a place where it waits for me like a sun-drenched meadow.

When you feel good about yourself, free within your confidence and sureness, it becomes physically impossible to return to feeling half-baked, self-conscious. Alienated from your power.

That’s a me I no longer know.

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