Bitten By The Confidence Bug
- Sheridan Guerrette
- May 20
- 8 min read
Why 98 Poems Made Me Feel More Naked Than A Nude Editorial
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Previously on What Sheridan Said...
Sheridan found herself wrestling with the weight of being an anomaly… again. After packing up and trading her small Tennessee city for the peaceful, unfamiliar streets of Greenville, SC, she’s carving out space to simply exist where no one already knows her name, her story, or her firecracker reputation. She talks about sitting at different tables from everyone else, inspiring and motivating others while quietly starving for their stories in return. From her early days as the town outlaw who refused to blend in, to the relentless small-town scrutiny and the bold leaps she’s taken in her career—skipping rungs on the ladder most people climb—she’s reflecting on how her “normal” has always looked strange to the outside world.
Even as she builds momentum in her writing, networking new gigs, and growing her collection in a brutal freelance market, she’s questioning the path and craving connection from fellow anomalies who haven’t spoken up yet. Because maybe we’re all less alone than we think.
I'm Tired: An Anomaly
May 6th, 2026
Notes from a Firecracker: What Nobody Tells You About Skipping Every Rung on the Ladder
CUT TO:
Bitten By The Confidence Bug
Things have been changing rapidly in my life — ending one lease and starting another, supporting my friends and loved ones as they lose jobs, navigate this brutal economy, and watch it chip away at their confidence and sense of value in the world.
I’ve struggled with the same thing myself. The lack of a clear title sometimes makes it hard to locate your own worth, your confidence, and your self-value. At least that’s how I felt for many years.
For a long time, I was the one off working, armed with a job title that carried (what I thought) bragging weight, and for several years more, the pattern continued. I hid behind the title because I wasn’t sure where else my value was. Those of you in big cities, who live on the busy side of culture, know exactly what I mean. In my ten collective years in America’s top five biggest cities, I’m not sure anyone ever asked for my name before my job title.
It’s not per se tragic. Most of us there are working 24/7, hate wasting time, and don’t have much patience for, let’s say, the dumb. So I get how it happens. Over time, the culture made it feel more like a matter of efficiency than something rude or ingenious.
Still, I struggle today with finding value in myself without a notable career title. I’d love to answer “What do you do?” with one clean, confident swing and smile. I keep reminding myself— and my friends and loved ones— that having a tidy answer to that question isn’t what life is about, and it’s certainly not where our real value lies.
When I did have a title, I rode it like a character sheet. I let that fake confidence dance through my tone. Because I was never just a director, a manager, a model, or an actress. I was also a businesswoman, a poet, a sister, a daughter, and always that same curious little child.
Now I remind the people I love, as they lose what they thought was their forever path, that new titles, new values, and new meanings are floating around us — whether we can see them yet or not. When I got my first manager role, I proudly led with the title. But I forgot to show everyone who else I was.
I could have said, “I’m a manager, but I also love writing poetry and people-watching in cafés with new friends.”
I could have said, “I’m a sister trying to figure out how to love and support my family long-distance while managing a team at work.”
I could have said, “What do I do? I do a lot. I write, I dream, I try to be a good person… and more than anything, I like building communities of friends who lift each other up.”
These are the pieces I’m learning to lead with now. The titles are never the full story — they were just the easiest chapter to read, the cheapest answer I could give. And maybe, just maybe, the confidence I’ve been missing has been hiding in all the in-between parts I used to leave out.
This week, I got bit by the confidence bug, and maybe that light finally let me see this clearly enough to say it out loud. Sometimes I understand something intellectually, but it doesn’t sink all the way in until I write it, turn it into a poem, or hide it inside a short story that ‘supposedly’ has nothing to do with me.
So yes, this week I’ve been reminding everyone around me of the multitude of values they carry while they hunt for their next gig, next title, next career path, or bragging right. I’m telling them they are so much more than a career or a spot on a company website. Thank god they subscribe to What Sheridan Said, because they get to hear it again — and hopefully in a more beautiful way.
(And now, in complete contradiction to everything I just wrote…)
The title and career trajectory I’ve had my whole life might actually become my only one. At least I hope, but even then, I can still be a philosopher and businesswoman at the same time.
I told my mother about the bug that bit me, and later that evening, I overheard her on the phone: “Sheridan was so giddy telling me, it was like she was on a talk show couch. She kept nervously kicking her legs up in the air.”
The past few weeks, I’ve been chatting with a pretty well-established publisher. For instance, I told my mother the publishing company’s name, she pulled them up on her phone, looked at their logo big on the screen, and said, “You mean these guys? Sheridan… they’re huge.”
I’ll be completely honest with you, the way I’ve tried to be for over a year now. Early last year, I decided to put my writing, my life, the bad, the good, and all the nitty, witty, and weird details out there. I shared script snapshots and poetry previews. I’ve grown in my ghostwriting and built a network of people who simply believe in me.
Then I started getting voicemails from this publisher. Then emails. Every few weeks, another check-in. I was already quietly piecing together manuscripts and poetry collections, but I was scared and kept dodging them.
Several months later, one of the head agent’s assistants texted me. For the first time, I felt comfortable enough to respond.
And a month ago, I finally responded. I scheduled a meeting with the publishing agent. I shared and spoke about the few written projects I’m working on, signed the NDAs to protect my work and ownership rights, and then sent them my manuscript.
I didn’t send them any other manuscripts besides the 98 poems. During the meeting, we spoke about my book manuscript and other projects, but poetry really wasn’t the focus. I’m not sure why, looking back, I didn’t include the other manuscripts even though they showed genuine excitement and interest in them. Something in me held them back, and I decided to proceed with only poetry.
I’ve been writing poetry for as long as I can remember. My first poetry book is from elementary school. It helped me learn how to read, and it gave me a safe place to express myself when my diary kept getting broken into, and it still helps me make sense of this consistently confusing world.
I sat in the back of a beautiful hotel coffee shop, ordered a London Fog. I wrote a couple of good-luck poems, then tuned into my meeting, which ended shortly after an hour long. I’m hyper-critical of myself (some might say perfectionist), so I kept repeating the mantra: “Be open. Be smart.” Which meant to me, be open to criticism and different tastes, but smart about standing my ground and protecting the art I feel naked sharing.
I received what I can only call the kindest editorial review I could have hoped for. They see me as a leader in narrative poetry. I shed two happy tears.
In it they broke down projected book sales by quarter, who would buy it, and laid out an actual business strategy with what they believed were realistic metrics. After reading their ten-page review about seven times, I told them I could hop on a call the very next second.
I was eager, my god, I was so jittery I couldn’t stop crying. Was it happiness? Was it relief? Was it the thought of having 98 poems of mine out in the world, leaving me feeling more nude than any of my nude couture editorials? Or all three…
I sat on the front porch, my knees to my chest, and my feet on the chair, and told my mother about it all. She smiled and said, “I remember Mrs. Diehl at the end of the year. She brought me your three-ring binder of poems and said, ‘Don’t ever get rid of this. It will be worth something someday.’”
I shed another tear of happiness and relief, because it looks like Mrs. Diehl is (hopefully) about to be right.
My poetry manuscript was accepted. Now I’m waiting to hear back from the publisher’s board on their proposed investment. They’re already talking about book fairs, signings, and assigning me a project manager for my image and PR.
As much as I’d love to call myself a poet and only a poet, I know my value is so much more than that. My poetry wouldn’t exist without my chaotic career path, the strange life choices I keep making, and the extreme perspectives I’ve been forced to see. But my god… I never thought I’d make money from my poetry before I died.
I wrote three poems a day consistently through college and kept the habit through my career, and on to today. I think in poems, dance in prose, sing in sonnets… and apparently rant in rhythm to you.
I’m beyond excited. I’m scared. And I’m still bitten by that confidence bug.
They think my work is incredible?
I am so incredibly honored.
xo,
Sheridan Guerrette
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You (thinking out loud): “I mean, I could support her, but I’m lame. Well, I don’t want to be lame, I want to be cool, you know? Like that girl Sheridan, my god, she’s so cool. — If only there were a way to be as cool as her? — idk —oh yeah, I guess by becoming a member, I’d become so cool, maybe, Sheridan will hit me in the face.”
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