When Excellence Makes You Question Your Own
A couple of weeks ago, I sat through a seminar led by one of my colleagues at Iowa State. She’s the kind of speaker who makes it look effortless. Every word is perfect. Every pause, intentional. Her pedigree stretches a mile high and just as wide—Ivy League credentials, a CV packed with accomplishments that made me tired just hearing about them. And to top it off? She is genuinely kind. The kind of person you want to root for, even when they make you feel like you’re playing a different game altogether.
If you’re not careful, moments like that can wreck you.
I caught myself thinking, Why even bother speaking when someone else is that good? And here’s the ridiculous part: I don’t even know why I went there. I’ve been speaking publicly for years—in classrooms, conferences, college-wide presentations, and councils. I’ve delivered my message hundreds of times and gotten positive feedback every time. “Inspiring.” “Loved it.” “Exactly what I needed to hear.” I know how to connect with an audience. I know my material lands.
But in that moment, listening to her speak with such polish and precision, all of that experience evaporated. Suddenly, I was hyper-aware of every time I stumble over a word, every pause where I’m searching for the right phrase, every moment where my delivery isn’t quite as elegant as I’d like it to be.
The Comparison Trap Doesn’t Care About Your Track Record
And here’s the thing: I know better. I’ve been doing this long enough to understand that comparison is a trap. But knowing something intellectually and feeling it in the moment are two very different things. Sitting in that room, I felt like my own voice—my own hard-won ability to communicate—was somehow less legitimate because it didn’t sound like hers.
That feeling lingered for a few days. I replayed the seminar in my head, critiquing my own recent presentations, wondering if I should change my approach, smooth out my edges, work on being more fluent. Maybe if I just rehearsed more, controlled my delivery better, sounded more polished, I’d be taken more seriously.
But here’s what I know now, sitting here a couple of weeks later with some distance and perspective:
I have my own voice. And that’s enough.
Your Message Is Yours Alone
My colleague’s story is extraordinary. Her accomplishments are real, earned, and impressive. Her delivery is flawless. But that’s her path, her style, her gift. Mine is different. I’m not always fluent. Sometimes I have trouble speaking elegantly. My words don’t always flow the way I want them to. But that’s part of my message—and only I can deliver it.
Because here’s what I bring that no amount of polish can replicate: authenticity. Experience. A perspective forged through years of practice, teaching, leading, and learning. When I speak, I’m not performing. I’m sharing what I know, what I’ve lived, what I’ve learned the hard way. And people respond to that.
The feedback I’ve received over the years isn’t despite my rough edges—it’s often because of them. People connect with the realness. They see someone who’s been in the trenches, who doesn’t have all the answers perfectly packaged, who’s still figuring it out while moving forward anyway. That resonates in a way that perfection never can.
Why the World Needs Your Imperfect Voice
Comparison flattens everything we bring to the table. It convinces us that only one version of success deserves the microphone. It tells us that the polished, pedigreed voice is the only one worth hearing. But the world doesn’t need another copy of that speaker—it needs what you have. It needs your candor, your compassion, your willingness to show up honestly even when you’re not perfectly fluent.
Your background, your quirks, your values—those are the things that connect, inspire, and resonate.
I’ve spent years teaching students who didn’t see themselves reflected in the traditional image of “successful academic.” Students who came from small towns, who worked full-time while going to school, who juggled family responsibilities and financial pressure and self-doubt. When I speak—when I stumble a little, when I search for the right word, when I deliver my message in my own imperfect way—I’m showing them something important: you don’t have to be perfect to be powerful. You don’t have to sound like everyone else to make an impact.
And when I speak with my accent, with my rough edges, with my stories about cattle farms and mobile vet clinics and side hustles—those aren’t flaws. They’re proof that I understand the people I’m talking to. They’re proof that I’ve lived what I’m teaching.
That’s something no amount of fluency can replicate.
Build Your Legacy, Not Someone Else’s Copy
So here’s what I’m reminding myself, and maybe you need to hear it too:
You don’t build your legacy by matching someone else. You build it by being the first and only you.
I have a long track record of public speaking. I’ve stood in front of rooms big and small, delivered messages that mattered, and made a difference. I’ve received the feedback. I’ve seen the impact. I know I can get my message across. And yet, one afternoon listening to someone else’s excellence nearly convinced me that my own wasn’t good enough.
That’s the insidious thing about comparison. It doesn’t care about your track record. It doesn’t care about your accomplishments or your feedback or your impact. It only cares about making you feel less than.
But I’m not playing that game anymore.
We Need All Kinds of Voices
The truth is, we need all kinds of voices at the table. We need the polished speakers who can command a room with precision. We need the storytellers who connect through vulnerability. We need the academics who bring rigor and the practitioners who bring experience. We need people who speak flawlessly and people who speak authentically, even when the words don’t come out quite right.
The mistake isn’t being different from someone else. The mistake is thinking that difference makes you less.
A couple of weeks ago, I sat in that seminar and felt small. Today, I’m grateful for the reminder. My colleague’s excellence doesn’t diminish mine—it just looks different. Her strengths aren’t my weaknesses. They’re just her strengths. And I have my own.
The Bottom Line
So next time the comparison urge creeps in—and it will, because we’re human—remember this: you’re not here to be a copy of anyone else. You’re here to be the one person only you can be.
That’s enough. That’s more than enough.
That’s everything.
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