The Journey of Self-Doubt, Compassion, and Connection

by Michael Zaky, MA Clinical Psychology.

I’ve spent a long period in isolation—not lonely, but feeling adrift, unsure of where my abilities were meant to lead me. I knew I had intelligence, but I kept questioning if it was actually applicable or if it existed only in my own mind, something others might never connect with. It’s a strange experience, almost like standing outside myself, observing my own rational, linear thinking and then turning around to question it. That’s been the rhythm of my life: constant inquiry, a search for meaning beneath the surface of things.

This search started early. Growing up in a religious environment, I was surrounded by ideas of purpose, faith, and morality. By sixteen, I was so driven by this need to understand life on a deeper level that I made a bold move—I joined a monastic order and declared I would become a monk. I wanted to take this journey all the way, to live in a space dedicated solely to seeking truth.

I didn’t stay at the monastic order, and the story of how that unfolded is something I may share in detail another time. But what matters for this article is how that journey inward set the stage for me to discover who I truly am. Leaving the monastic life didn’t mean abandoning my questions; if anything, it propelled me deeper into self-reflection. I had committed to a life of inquiry, of digging below the surface, and that commitment stayed with me. Over time, I came to understand that this curiosity, this drive to seek and understand, wasn’t just a phase—it was central to who I am. My journey inward wasn’t about reaching a destination; it was about embracing the continual unfolding of self-awareness.

But the path inward isn’t always smooth, pretty, or easy. You face your fears and darker traits—the parts of yourself that hold resentment and anger. You confront loss, hurt, and pain, meeting them with a courage born from curiosity and wonder. That’s what has driven me since I was a kid—the desire to know more, always seeking something deeper.

In ninth grade, I didn’t care much for school. I often felt like I thought differently than everyone else, which only added to my frustration. In math, for example, I’d come up with my own ways of solving equations. My methods worked—they got the same results—but I’d still get in trouble for not following the “right” steps. And when I tried to do things their way, I’d miss the mark entirely. It made me feel like I didn’t belong, like I wasn’t capable in the ways that mattered to them.

This lack of confidence bled into every area, even the subjects I would later excel in, like English. Up until that year, my papers were awful. I’d just assumed that writing wasn’t something I was good at. But in ninth grade, my English teacher did something different. Instead of criticizing me, he showed compassion. He noticed something in my writing, maybe potential, and he asked, “Hey, do you want to work on this together?” And I said yes.

He sat with me, guiding me through the process. That single act of encouragement changed everything. It was like he’d opened a door I didn’t even know existed. Suddenly, I felt capable, like maybe there was something worthwhile in what I had to say. His belief in me brought out the quality I hadn’t known was there. He’s the one who saw it, who brought it to the surface.

The first real accomplishment I ever felt was when I graduated with my undergraduate degree in biology, finishing in three years instead of four. It was a quiet pride, the kind that didn’t need recognition or validation. I didn’t speak about it, didn’t feel the urge to share it with anyone. It wasn’t about telling the world; it was something sacred, a feeling so personal that even talking about it felt like it would diminish its weight. This pride was real because it was entirely for myself, something I held close, knowing it meant something deeper than the achievement alone.

The nature of my self-doubt, though, comes from facing the realities of a world that can be deeply cruel. I often wonder how my philosophies of kindness, compassion, curiosity, and respect can find a place in a world that doesn’t always value them. Yet, I strive to live by these values. I’m human, and I feel the pull of anger, especially when confronted with injustice. But I choose kindness instead, precisely because it’s harder. It requires more strength to stay compassionate, to choose gratitude and curiosity, especially when it would be easier to respond with anger or resentment.

It’s a daily practice, reminding myself that there’s power in doing something different than what perpetuates harm. Kindness is an act of resistance against the very forces that create harm in the first place. Upholding these values doesn’t mean ignoring the harshness of the world; it means consciously choosing not to contribute to it. And that choice, as difficult as it is, feels like the most meaningful way to navigate through the complexity around me.

I also want to clarify that my hypersensitivity isn’t the same as compassion. It’s an ability I have, something innate that I didn’t cultivate or earn—it simply exists within me. This sensitivity allows me to tune into others, to resonate with them on a deeper level, but it’s distinct from compassion itself. It’s a skill I tap into, enhanced over time by the emotional connections I’ve built in my relationships. In informal settings, I’m drawn to understanding the person in front of me—curious, yes, but maybe more than that, I’m genuinely invested in them. This intrigue is tied to my principles: respect, kindness, compassion, and openness.

I bring these values to my interactions without expecting them in return. But I’ve come to a decision in my life: while I don’t expect others to meet me with the same energy, I will only engage deeply when I receive it in return. That choice allows me to cultivate relationships that resonate with what’s “right” for me, rather than trying to shape them according to what’s universally right or wrong.

This is what I encourage for anyone reading this—to recognize that alignment isn’t about a universal standard of right or wrong; it’s about what resonates within you. Logic and reason may guide our thoughts, but our emotional landscapes are more intuitive, more embodied. This “knowing” doesn’t always arrive through intellectual analysis. It’s a feeling of comfort or discomfort, a resonance or discord that runs through the nervous system. Tuning into this, honoring your own sense of what feels right, can create a foundation of authentic, balanced connections with others.

Whoa, we definitely drifted there! This is the kind of contemplation I find myself in sometimes. This article came together as a first draft—several hours of thinking poured out onto the page in one go. It’s just a snapshot of tapping into something I’ve been aware of since I was young but had to be encouraged to use. That encouragement, that feeling of being seen and appreciated, has been a crucial part of facing my self-doubt.

And, to me, self-doubt is ultimately a feeling of isolation—a sense of being separated from the validation and understanding we sometimes crave. But through this journey, I’ve come to see that moving beyond self-doubt isn’t just about personal affirmation; it’s about embracing others’ journeys as they uncover their own strengths and abilities. I’m doing this now not only to connect with my own path but to appreciate and support the transformations of others, creating a space where isolation becomes connection, where self-doubt is met with shared understanding.

The best part about all this, as I write, is knowing that what I share is just my perspective. It’s one lens, one way of seeing things. But the beauty is that the reason and logic in what I’m saying can be agreed upon, and that’s where we can meet—if anything, in reason and logic. In a world that often feels divided, there’s something profoundly grounding about knowing we can connect there, in that shared understanding. Somehow, in that meeting place, there’s a beautiful sense of unity.

Written by Michael Zaky, MA Clinical Psychology