Imposter, who?

I have to squash the cry of that part of me that rebels against the rest of me. The part that wants to see me small, and smaller still. It’s the Amy that is meek and mild, the Amy that can’t move for fear of wrong turns, the Amy that doesn’t speak up for what she believes in, the Amy that feels lonely and second best, at best. It’s the part that says the rest of me is an imposter, a mirage.

“Imposter!” it shouts out, loud and strong in my head. It’s always in my head, never my heart. “Imposter!” is yells when I’m bold or speaking out. “Imposter!” it heckles when I’ve made a mistake. “Imposter!” it jostles when my mind empties after a full day. “Imposter!” is screams when someone tells me how accomplished they are and I don’t match up.

It’s boring that way, using the same old language, the same old volume and the same old tricks. It knows just when to begin its morning cry, and just when to start up its evening cry because I fall for it most times. I hate this part of me that seems at war with the other things I know about myself. I hate that when this part of me lifts its voice, all reason, all truth, all evidence flies out the window.

Even when I know myself to be bold. I know I am a fast learner. I know I have a whole tribe of friends and family who love me. I know I have seen and continue to see big wins in my life.

But even though it’s a part of me, it isn’t the sum of me. This part that is ugly and small has to shout, cry, scream “Imposter!” because it can’t stand against reason, can never match truth and can’t handle the least bit of scrutiny.

It shouts as loud as it can, because it has no bones, no structure. It is dust in the wind. Sand in the vast ocean. Ice melting on hot pavement.

It is lost in comparison to the rest of me. This part of me, that isn’t the sum of me, isn’t even the least of me. And each year it’s becoming less and less so.

You may also like