Still Showing Up: Impostor Syndrome, New Chapters, and Building Something That Matters

There’s a weird irony in building a platform like Get Out — something that’s all about showing up, embracing imperfection, and helping people feel seen — while quietly wondering if I’m doing any of it “right.”

Lately, I’ve been feeling it again. That sneaky whisper in the back of my mind that says, “Who do you think you are?”

Impostor syndrome. It’s not new for me. But like an old housemate who moves out and then turns up again with no warning — it always knows when I’m at my most vulnerable.

The truth is, I’ve been in caretaker mode for a little while. Not absent — just… stretched. Between saying yes to a new job as Comms Manager at Northern Beaches Hospital, moving interstate, setting up a new home, and trying to keep my health and routines intact, Get Out has taken a bit of a back seat.

And for that, I suppose this is both a confession and an apology. Not in a performative way. But in the human way — the way we all sometimes need to say, I’m doing my best, even if it doesn’t look perfect from the outside.

But here’s what I also know to be true: even when I’ve had to slow down, I’ve never stopped believing in this project. In this community. In why we started.

The Mission Still Matters

Get Out was never about me being a guru, or a polished professional, or someone who had it all figured out. It was about building something better than what was on offer — something more human than hookup culture, more hopeful than swiping through strangers hoping for something real.

And even if the road’s been uneven, the direction hasn’t changed.

We’ve always been about connection without pressure. Movement without perfection. Friendship, community, and real conversations — not filtered highlight reels.

Because honestly? Dating apps — especially in queer spaces — can leave you feeling lonelier than before you logged on. I ditched the gay dating apps over a year ago, and while I still occasionally dip into Hinge or Tinder (usually out of boredom, rarely with hope), I know they’re not where I want to spend my time.

They don't fill me up. They drain me. They trick me into thinking I’m connecting, when really, I’m just scrolling through curated chaos.

What fills me up is this: writing something that resonates. Hosting a walk where strangers become friends. Building a tool that helps someone find their way to a volunteering gig, or a queer social sports group, or a morning yoga class by the ocean.

What fills me up is knowing that Get Out has the potential to help people feel less alone — even if that help looks different every week.

The Impostor Inside

Arthur C. Brooks recently wrote about impostor syndrome and how it can quietly chip away at your happiness. His take? The very fact that you’re worried about being a phony probably means you’re not one.

Because the actual phonies? They’re not questioning anything. They’re certain they belong. They’re not up late wondering whether they’re living up to their mission — they’re too busy selling the next big thing.

But if you’re the kind of person who cares deeply — who feels the responsibility of your platform, your community, your work — you’re probably going to bump into impostor syndrome now and then. Especially when things grow. When more people are watching. When the stakes feel higher.

That’s me, right now.

I look at what we’re trying to build with Get Out, and some days I think: This is working. People are signing up. They’re showing up. They’re telling me it matters.

And other days, I think: Who am I to be leading this? What if I’ve already peaked? What if I can’t keep up?

But then I breathe. I reread the messages people have sent. I remember the long walks that turned into deep friendships. I remind myself that showing up isn’t about being perfect — it’s about being present.

And I write pieces like this. Because sometimes, saying the quiet part out loud is what breaks the shame spiral.

Taking It to the Next Level (Even If It’s Not Clear What That Looks Like Yet)

Now that I’ve been back in Sydney for six weeks, I can feel the tide shifting.

The dust is starting to settle. The boxes are unpacked. The chaos of the move is slowly giving way to new rhythms. And in that space, there’s room again for Get Out to breathe.

But I know I can’t do it alone anymore.

What that means — whether it's a formal business partnership, short-term contract help, or just a few passionate volunteers — I’m still figuring out. But I know this: it's time to grow.

Not just the platform. The team. The capacity. The impact.

Because if Get Out is going to be the community matchmaker I know it can be — helping people find not just each other, but purpose, movement, belonging, meaning — then we need more hands and hearts in the mix.

It’s still a great big experiment. It’s not perfect. But it’s alive. And it’s ready for the next season.

From Phony to Founder (and Everything In Between)

Impostor syndrome doesn’t mean you’re a fraud. It just means you care.

You care about doing things well. About honouring your values. About not letting people down.

And while that care can sometimes tip into anxiety, it’s also the same energy that builds beautiful things.

So here I am, again. Still building. Still learning. Still getting it wrong some days, and surprisingly right on others.

I haven’t “made it.” But I’ve made this. A space where people can show up awkwardly, imperfectly, and find a kind of belonging that isn’t transactional. A space where movement, wellness, and connection are all welcome. A space that feels more like a community than a product.

And honestly? That feels pretty damn good to me.

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If you’ve ever felt like a bit of a phony while trying to make something meaningful — you’re not alone. You’re in good company. And you’re probably doing better than you think.

Want to get involved in the next phase of Get Out? Whether you’re a community builder, a volunteer wrangler, a connector, a writer, or just someone with a passion for helping people feel less alone — I’d love to hear from you on brodie@getout.global. Let’s figure out how to make this even better, together.