Why does the first step always feel wrong?

This year has been… heavy.

As a fresh graduate, I’ve been swimming in self-doubt more than I’d like to admit. Maybe that’s what comes with starting out, feeling like everyone else already knows what they’re doing while you’re still figuring out how to breathe in a completely new city, a completely new world.

I started the year strong — taking on responsibilities in my organization, juggling the internship of my dreams, trying to be everywhere at once. Coming from the province, moving to Manila felt like stepping into a movie. You know the scene: staring out the window of the bus, the plane, the train, in awe of the buildings, the lights, the noise, and thinking, “This is it. This is what I worked for.”

But excitement came with pressure. That dawning feeling of actually being where I worked so hard to get was overwhelming. Some days I had to remind myself: how did I even get here? How did I become someone who could even try to be a copywriter, a storyteller, a creator?

But... why does the first step always feel wrong?

Writing has always been my first language. From fan fiction on Wattpad (yes, the “My Mom sold me to One Direction” kind), the ones with a ridiculous number of tags and warnings on AO3, to journalism competitions in high school and senior high, to keeping my own personal journal to document everything — writing was my lifeline. It was how I made sense of the world, how I processed all the “firsts,” all the failures, all the little victories I couldn’t celebrate out loud.

And yet, no matter how much I worked, how much I learned during my internship, there was always that sinking feeling whispering: maybe I overestimated myself. Even when people told me I wrote well, that my concepts were creative, that my insights mattered, I doubted myself. I felt like my work wasn’t ever enough. That voice followed me everywhere. It wasn’t anyone else’s fault. It was mine.

One of my mentors a long time ago always told me, “As long as you stay true to yourself, no matter where you go and what happens, you will always find your voice.” That’s something I carried with me every step of the way.

A few months after graduating and still doubting myself, I applied to The Film Dream as a Junior Copywriter/Producer, taking a chance even though I didn’t feel fully confident. I got the role, but I hadn’t written in months. Still, I pushed myself to submit my first piece: “Nobody Cares About Your Short Film… Until They Do.” Seeing how people resonated with it, how it sparked connection and conversation, warmed me in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time. It reminded me why I started creating in the first place.

It wasn’t The Film Dream that healed me — that came from my first internship, from putting myself out there, learning constantly, and absorbing everything my mentors could teach me. That’s where I grew, where I learned that I could create, and that my ideas, insights, and writing had value.

What The Film Dream did, however, was help me face my impostor syndrome. After my internships, I struggled to create like I did in that structured, supportive environment. I doubted every idea, every draft, every line — wondering if it was good enough, if anyone would care.

Joining The Film Dream gave me a safe space to start again. It reminded me that I could show up, share my work, and that it could resonate — even imperfectly. Before submitting my first piece, I started small:

• Writing about trivial things that mattered only to me

• Experimenting with a commonplace journal

• Reading books and articles

• Slowly dipping back into creativity without pressure

I didn’t do it perfectly or consistently, but it kept the fire alive and helped me continue learning and growing in my craft.

Submitting my first piece didn’t erase all my doubts. I still have much to learn, countless skills to sharpen, and lessons ahead. But I am deeply grateful — not just for my first internship, which taught me I could create and grow, but for The Film Dream, which gave me the opportunity to start again. That submission became a foothold, a small, meaningful step into a space I had been dreaming of, where my stories can be seen, heard, and appreciated.

I still have a lot to learn, a lot to experience, but I’m ready to face them head-on. I am still in the process of finding my narrative — maybe I’ve already found it, but like everything, things change. Regardless, I am willing to learn, to grow, and to keep pushing myself to write and write again.

Your narrative doesn’t start perfectly. It doesn’t start when you have all the tools, all the confidence, or all the answers. It starts with the small steps: writing a page, sending that application, saying yes to a challenge, showing up when you feel unready.

For me, that’s what this year has been: learning to take the leap even when nothing makes sense, trusting that my story is unfolding, and allowing myself to grow into it at my own pace.

The narrative is still mine to write. And maybe, just maybe, it’s okay if it’s messy. Maybe the beauty of it isn’t in perfection — it’s in starting anyway.

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The FAI-nal Cut

Felicity Amber Ibrado is a Junior Copywriter / Producer for The Film Dream. She is a curious storyteller with a love for human insight, always exploring what makes people and their stories tick. Outside of writing, she’s a gamer at heart and an adventurer, endlessly drawn to discovering new places.

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