Imposter in My Own Mind
I stare at those around who walk in their shoes with no sense of hesitation. They confidently and unapologetically carry themselves, the story of their life cast in the shadow that trails, as they transcribe their plans into the air. I’m disheartened by my own doubts.
I think I can safely say that many of us in our early twenties feel the looming impostor syndrome as we enter what we think is our snug-fitting societal role. I’ve stood in front of groups of kids, with between a decade and three years of seniority, told to tell them that I knew things. That somehow, in the space between the age marking our grandeur of knowledge in life, I had something to pass along.
I know I did. But I also felt like half a human who was falling more apart than they were from those extra years on this planet of full-consciousness and control. Standing there, their open ears and unforgiving minds soaked by the words I nearly transpired.
Who was I to tell them?