Five years ago, I left my last corporate job to throw myself into an adventure I wanted, chose, fantasized about — but above all, one that was unknown. I’m not ashamed to say I filed the paperwork for my SASU without really knowing what the plan was. Selling consulting as a freelancer, okay — but what did that actually mean? What were the real implications of that choice? For my lifestyle, my health, my finances, my future?

I had absolutely no idea how big a turn this really was.

No matter how many excellent podcasts I listened to, how many books I read, my degrees, or the wise advice of organizations that help new entrepreneurs… I’m convinced today that no training, no advice, no book could have truly given me a real preview of what I experienced over the past five years.

I went through immense joys and immense sorrows; my self-esteem has never been tested so harshly; my confidence in the future has been flattened by steamrollers more than once. Even today, I regularly put my health at risk: I sleep too little, I eat so-so, I either exercise too much or not at all, and my anxiety feeds on the dozens of catastrophic scenarios I sketch out in my head. In short: I didn’t find the miracle recipe — because there isn’t one.

Solitude and discouragement as a backdrop

I quickly came up against one of the solopreneur realities: my solitude. I’m the only captain on board. And just as when I left the family ship at 18, the fantasy of independence gave way to a reality that felt like an abyss.

When I started out, most of my friends were employees with a lifestyle very different from mine — and, above all, with means far above mine.

I canceled my beauty-box subscriptions and my gym membership, I stopped getting my nails done every two weeks, and I cut the dinners and nights out where you don’t look at the bill.

I was living on 54% of my previous salary, I had no idea what I was doing, and I hadn’t made a plan. I pretended I knew exactly what I was getting myself into because I was terrified of admitting I was just a 27-year-old woman in burnout who dreamed of sleeping 15 hours straight and not feeling empty anymore.

Some of my friends supported me, but I also faced the incomprehension — often fueled by fear — of people close to me. I lost some of my closest friends. I had to hear that I was “reckless,” that it was “stupid,” that I’d “be better off in a consulting firm,” and that I “should find a real job.” Today I no longer let anyone walk over my dreams and projects while I lower my eyes thinking “go to hell, you’ll see.” I lift my chin and explain to people who doubt me that I didn’t ask for their opinion, that their fears belong to them, and that I only accept comments from people who are also in the arena.

Impostor syndrome — my anxiety in sequins

When I started, I was convinced I was walking around with a sign on my back that said “impostor.” At every event I went to, at every professional meeting, with every outreach email — even with clients who were happy and congratulated me. Impostor syndrome isn’t some cute concept for social posts or blog articles. It’s real. For me, when you’re a woman you experience it differently than a man — I think we all feel like we’re playing a role we’re not qualified for. It’s just that men, in our patriarchal environment, live it differently and suffer from it differently — not less or better, just differently. I’ll only speak from my experience as a woman — I’m talking about what I know.

I had to learn to fight anxiety on new ground. I’ve known it forever, but this time it had found new tools to twist my stomach and tighten my throat. I spent entire afternoons curled up on the floor in a corner of my 35 m², telling myself I was useless, that I’d be better off disappearing, and that I should stop believing I had what it takes to grow a business. Since Espiègle was born, I’ve done four straight years of regular therapy — for personal reasons, but also to manage anxiety and depressive disorders that seemed determined to crash the party without warning.

A former classmate I reconnected with through social media recently asked me how I beat my impostor syndrome. Well — I fight it every day.

A stage worthy of the stakes

Instagram quickly became an important part of my work, and I poured a lot of time and energy into it. But it’s like a Gremlin working for my downfall — an unpaid collab with my anxiety.

Instagram is a huge jungle of people with something to sell — entrepreneurs thirsty for likes. If that network helped me meet incredible people and find a good chunk of the ones I now call my tribe, it was also the scene of many inner battles.

Bodies, lives, smiles… everything is smooth there, without overflow. And in recent years, even overflow — the missteps, the tears, the pain — has been staged, instrumentalized, and must serve growth, meaning the creator’s account profitability. It’s the same rule for business: parading results, euros (or dollars) banked, clients, testimonials dripping with love that sometimes ring false because they’re too perfect. On that network, we paint whatever picture we want — it’s easy to make people believe everything’s fine. Even going through a bad patch becomes a marketing argument for “authenticity”… but where’s the authenticity when the creator takes the time to film themselves in tears in the middle of a crisis?

Instagram made me believe it was bad to want to “hustle” for my business — but that “slow-preneurship” didn’t really exist either. I read everything and its opposite there; everyone has a 5-, 8-, 12-step method to reach the holy grail of 10k (euros or followers — pick your team). And that headlong rush has achieved just one truly unanimous result in my circle: wreck my mental health, wreck my self-confidence, and wreck my ability to build a solid strategy for my business.

Instagram is disguised as a Good Samaritan, supposedly handing us the free keys to success and the dream life — an endless stream of inspiration and incredible connections. The reality is that today, about 90% (rough estimate) of the revenue I’ve generated over the past five years has come in through direct prospecting of my client base.

Yet if I take the time to sit down (which I only did very recently thanks to the person who supports me with Espiègle’s strategic steering) and tally what I spend on Instagram each month, here’s what I get:

• Content creation: 2 days — roughly €1,400 incl. tax (I use my hourly rate for this calculation)
• Account activity (stories, community interactions, monitoring): 15 hours — roughly €1,300 incl. tax
• Canva subscription for content creation: €11 incl. tax per month
• Photo shoot to feed the content: €600 incl. tax / every 6 months (a very small budget compared to other creators)

I don’t run sponsorships and I don’t outsource any part of my content creation — though some of my peers do.

That brings me to a monthly total of over €2,800 incl. tax. Yes, you read that right.

For 10% of my acquisition, I spend almost €3,000 incl. tax per month. That’s massive compared to the revenue I generate.

So the reality is that I spend an enormous amount — time, energy, euros — on a channel that feeds my anxiety, my confusion, and my feeling of not being legitimate far more than it feeds my client pipeline.

How do you fight impostor syndrome?

By cutting off the things that feed it. It’s a feeling, not a fact. I’m not an impostor! I have solid training, a brain that works just fine, and I always did excellent work in my corporate jobs. I didn’t suddenly become incapable and stupid the day I decided to pay myself.

So I:

• Cut ties with people who didn’t support me and insisted on convincing me I was on the wrong path.
• Renewed my circle with incredible, inspiring people who know how to support me and challenge me so I give my best.
• Worked on myself in therapy to nourish my self-esteem, my confidence, and my ability to make the right decisions for my well-being and my success.
• Chose to set clear boundaries in my collaborations so I wouldn’t get walked over and end up doubting my abilities.
• Reassessed my relationship to the tools I use based on their impact on my mental health and on my business.

It’s never easy to say “I’ve changed” and show up as your new self. There will always be people who tell you you were better before — or make sure you get the message.

The hardest part for me was that stretch of the road: learning to love change, not disowning former versions of myself, but not holding myself back from growing out of nostalgia. I’m not at the end of my journey — far from it. But I think if I had one piece of advice for the Clémence at the very beginning, it would be to work on believing in herself so she could face every wave of doubt.

No matter how much you believe in your project and your vision — no matter how deeply you know in your gut you’re where you should be — sometimes a single raised eyebrow or a disapproving pout is enough to make the whole structure tremble. Self-confidence is the best way to fight raised eyebrows and pursed lips. Confidence, like strategy, is something you build, maintain, and nourish.

We always come back to the same conclusion: take care of yourself.