Death to Imposter Syndrome

I’m 23. He grows in me, then she grows in me.

I’m 25. Not giving up. I can still do it.

I’m 26. T is gone. Broken. Why’d you do that babe?

I’m 27. Bosslady sees her opportunity. I’m weak. Easy target. Gas lit. Bullied. Broken.

We move.

I’m 28. Making moves to avoid the devil. Dropped dead weight. New place. All praise to the Most High.

Wait. What’s that? Turmoil incoming.

I can’t do this. I’m sick. I can’t breathe. I need help.

I’m gonna keep trying. It’s so hard.

They need me though. She needs me and they need me. It seems.

I’m by myself. This village doesn’t look like me. I don’t know what I look like.

I’m 29. Lockdown. Happy birthday. Happy where?

I’m 30. Still on lock. I hate this shit. I want more. I can do it. But why would they want me to?

I’m always off. Everyone’s there except me.

I want to grow. To expand. Can’t do it. Maybe I’m not good enough. Maybe I don’t deserve it.

I’m not as sick. But they’ve locked me up to keep me safe.

Let me out.

Please.

Outside is opening. I’m still here.

I’m still 30. I can’t do this. It’s too hard. I’m crying. I haven’t done this in so long.

It feels good. Release it baby. Go with it. Or just go. I don’t know.

30 again. Still here. They want more. I know I can but I don’t know if I should.

But I’m crying. Maybe I can’t? Wait, if she can. Then maybe I can…

I’ll try. But they’ll know it’s not for me.

Just try baby.

It’s Friday now. I did it. I cried. Different tears. Tears of joy.

It’s been a while.

I nearly didn’t try. Fancy that. If I didn’t.

I wouldn’t have known that I could.

Here I am. Victory lap. It feels good.

I’ve grown in me. I like this girl.

She did good.

“The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord: and he delighteth in his way.”

Psalm 37:23