Imposter Syndrome
-A Self portrait narrative-
I can’t be everything for everyone, all the time. That is a truth I’ve only begun to realize in the last two-ish years.
In my teenhood and early twenties, I felt immense pressure to power myself “On” and chameleon, depending on my surroundings.
Do more. Be more. And then, you’re still not enough.
Lose weight. Starve. Wake up with the shakes. And then, you’re still not beautiful enough.
Beg for love. Beg for crumbs. And then, still convince yourself having your face shoved in the dirt is love.
Sometimes, life feels like changing a hat or a wig. Being in my own skin did not feel adequate enough, and so I’d change myself for others, even it meant selling myself short.
Have you ever stepped foot in a room and immediately felt like a robot; like your every move and gesture and appearance must be mechanically tailored to blend with everyone else?
Be nice, but not too nice. Be honest, but not too honest. Be funny, but not too funny. Be real, be you…but really, be anything but yourself.
It’s the fear of being seen for who we really are. If our skin could be unzipped - if the guts of our soul and its secrets were exposed - what would be found?
Someone called me their “whore”.
That statement felt like someone spit in my face. You know what I did?
I laughed.
…Despite knowing the truth of my virtue.
And then, I said something.
Because that’s what we learn to do when we allow our facade - the kitschy pink wig that’s not even truly “us” - to shred our own worth down to nothingness and crumbs.
We avoid someone else’s reaction, and in turn, stuff it all down.
We learn to just take it. We say nothing. We agree for sake of “peace” and politeness. Or, we laugh. We laugh to deflect our own emotions. We laugh it off and then say something, or nothing at all.
It’s like saying, “Hit me.”
The hat, the wig, the beautiful facade looks appealing and is certainly agreeable to the masses. It’s comfortable. It’s safe. It hides the pain and shame and guilt and disgust and pieces we hate about ourselves. But here’s the thing:
It also quashes our values, our voice, our authenticity, the real beauty and Truth and imprints of our God created being, and sucks the everliving life out of our soul. For years and years, I wanted to be free, but I did not want to be broken open.
Freedom comes at a cost. And that cost requires vulnerability and letting go of the protection over our image.
Finding my voice - unmuting my voice - and the ways God wired up my DNA, required me to break open and caused me to feel gutted of the very things I stuffed down for so long.
But the more I confessed, the more I opened myself up to others, to the Father, and allowed my cracks and crevices to be exposed in all their grit and ugliness…
…The more freedom I felt, and the more whole my cracks and crevices and ugliness and grittiness felt whole again.
I don’t know who needs to hear this, but He sees you.
It’s time to come out of hiding. It’s time to show yourself. It’s time to ditch the facade; the wig and hat and glasses that hide the beauty of your soul.