My dream of becoming a teacher was born when I was nine years old. I held it close and practised with chalk and a makeshift blackboard in my room.

Then, when I was in Grade 11, my mum went to the annual Parents’ Evening. She arrived at her appointment with my English teacher, a dour, steel-haired man who smelt of cigarette smoke.

Now, English teachers are meant to be caring, inspirational, a mix between Robin Williams in Dead Poets Society and Sidney Poitier in To Sir, with Love. But my English teacher had not understood the assignment.

“What does Cathy want to study?” he rasped.

When my mum replied that I was intending to apply for a bursary to study teaching, he shook his head and pronounced: “Nuh uh, she’s not made for teaching, she’s way too shy. She should rather opt for an office job. A much better choice for her.”

When my mum came home and reported this conversation to me, I was incensed.

His ill-advised comment highlighted how little he knew about me. It strengthened my resolve to become the kind of high school teacher who sees and supports the growth and dreams of students.

And I did. I studied an education degree and taught English to high school students.

Today, decades later, I still get messages on social media from students who loved and were inspired by our classes.

Yet, in my early career, the blunt words spoken in the gruff voice of my old English teacher echoed in my mind.

On bad days, they amplified my inner doubt. If I wasn’t vigilant, they whittled away at my confidence.

As a result, I signed up for personal development courses and studied techniques for stepping into my own power.

And I succeeded. Mostly. By which I mean I continued to work to fulfil my purpose, despite and alongside the self-doubt.

After five years in the school system, I wanted something more. I wanted to be my own boss and not be dictated to by the curriculum.

I resigned and started my own business, teaching English to international students.

It was up to me to do my marketing, find clients, and generate income.

So, of course, the self-doubting voice got louder. To handle it, I journalled and meditated and grew. I found ways to dial that little voice down to a whisper.

And now, two decades later, I have taught life skills and business skills to juvenile offenders, report writing skills to scientists and lab assistants, and leadership and EQ skills to bank managers and CEOs.

I have brought many of my dreams to fruition. But still, that doubting inner voice has never fully left.

Now that I’m in my late 50s, you’d think that inner voice would have finally retired.

But she’s still in my head, whispering. She can still throw me off balance.

Except that now she’s a bit like an old aunt who keeps turning up at my door uninvited, barging her way in, looking around and making judgy comments in her snide way.

I roll my eyes at her. Sometimes I shake my head: There she goes again, I think.

I turn my back and find my calm centre again. And I step forward to do the next right thing.

Because it seems you’re never too old to feel self-doubt. And you’re never too old to go ahead and do it anyway.