Lying became easier than the look on their face when I told the truth.
I've started lying about what I do for a living. Not because I'm ashamed of it. Because the truth sounds like a scam.
A guy at a bar in the Algarve last month asked what I did. Normal question. I told him the truth. Digital products, couple hours of work a day, travel full-time. He nodded slowly, the way people nod when they're deciding if you're full of shit.
Then he asked if I'd heard of this great opportunity in crypto.
He thought I was one of those guys. The laptop-on-the-beach, passive-income, DM-me-for-details guys. And I couldn't even be mad because from the outside my life looks exactly like their Instagram ad.
So I started editing. Now when people ask, I say I run a small publishing company. Which is technically true if you squint. It's boring enough that no one asks follow-up questions. Doesn't trigger the scam alarm. Lets me have a normal conversation without watching someone's face rearrange while they try to figure out my angle.
So I started editing. Now when people ask, I say I run a small publishing company. Which is technically true if you squint. It's boring enough that no one asks follow-up questions. Doesn't trigger the scam alarm. Lets me have a normal conversation without watching someone's face rearrange while they try to figure out my angle.
But I spent fifteen years building this life. A decade in logistics. Sold the company. Went broke at 35. Rebuilt from nothing. And now I can't describe what I do to a stranger without sounding like a guy who's about to pitch them a course.
That's the trap. You build something real and it looks identical to something fake. And eventually you stop claiming your own life because the explanation costs more than the silence.
You've done some version of this. Maybe you freelance and you've started telling people you "work in marketing" because saying "I run my own thing" invites twenty minutes of unsolicited advice. Maybe you quit a good job and when your uncle asks what you're doing now, you name the one client that sounds most like a real employer. Maybe you make decent money doing something that doesn't have a job title and you've learned to change the subject before anyone asks how.
It's not imposter syndrome. Imposter syndrome is feeling like you don't deserve what you have. This is different. This is knowing damn well you earned it and watching people not believe you. Over and over until you start helping them not believe you. Until lying becomes easier than the look on their face when you tell the truth.
The worst part isn't the strangers. It's the people who've known you longest. Old friends who still ask when you're going to get a real job. Family who can't picture what you do because it doesn't look like anything they've ever seen. They're not being cruel. They just don't have a frame for it. And after enough conversations that go nowhere, their confusion starts to feel like a verdict.
You start second-guessing yourself. Not because anything changed with the business. The numbers are fine. The accounts are fine. But the reactions keep telling you something doesn't add up. And when enough people look at you sideways, their doubt starts to feel like evidence. Against your own life. Against the thing you built with years you can't get back.
I used to think credibility came from results. Make the money, build the thing, live the life, and people get it. They don't. Credibility comes from legibility. People trust what they can categorize. Doctor. Teacher. Lawyer. Even "I own a restaurant" works because they can picture the restaurant. They can picture you in it yelling about a ticket.
"I sell digital products from my laptop and surf in the mornings" doesn't fit in any box. So people make one for you. And it's never the right one.
I don't have a clean answer for this. What I've stopped doing is adjusting. No more softened job titles. No more vague descriptions designed to make my life sound normal enough to swallow. If someone asks what I do, I tell them the real version. If they think I'm full of shit, fine. They're allowed to.
What actually helped, and I know how this sounds, was the water. Most mornings I paddle out and nobody in the lineup cares what anyone does for a living. They care if you can read a set. They care if you're going to snake their wave. Out there you're just a body on a board who either knows what he's doing or doesn't. No job title. No elevator pitch. No box.
I spent fifteen years trying to build a life I didn't have to explain to anyone. Turns out the life was the easy part. It's the not explaining that'll kill you.
— Best, Jose
