I find this happening all the time. I like the person I am in my stories better than I like the real me. That person is smarter, wittier, more patient, funnier—his view of the world is wiser. When I stop writing and come back to myself, I feel more limited, opinionated, and petty.

But what a pleasure it was, to have been, on the page, briefly less of a dope than usual.

The cult of productivity has its place, but worshipping at its altar can rob us of our sense of curiosity, joy, and wonder and rob a company of its ability to self-reflect.

By admitting our doubts, we get to enjoy one of the great gifts of being human: belonging.

Put more generally: In settings that are important to us and where we could be devalued based on stereotypes about our identity, we feel safer with our own kind.

It’s difficult to feel welcome if acceptance is seen as conditional on affiliating with values one is just becoming aware of.