p o s t // 2
S O M E T H I N G A B O U T I M P O S T E R S Y N D R O M E
Everyone says they get imposter syndrome but when you're deep in it, like I am this week, it feels like you’re the only person in the world who’s ever felt this way.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be a writer. I didn’t study writing, though I wish I had. I’ve never submitted anything to be published (yet), but the desire to write lives in my bones. It’s always been there.
I was the kid with journals hidden in drawers, the adult who finally decided to “learn” how to write and signed up for UCLA Extension courses(which I LOVED). I write in my journal regularly, sometimes multiple times a day. My laptop is filled with documents I’m too scared to show anyone. I write poetry, pouring my sensitive heart onto the page, but I’m the only one who ever reads it(until now).
When I was growing up, I had a grandpa named Milton. He married my grandmother later in life, they were companions after each of their spouses had passed. They married before I was born, so Milton was always there.
A short time before or after I was born, Milton had a stroke that changed how he could communicate. He couldn't speak the way he once had, but somehow, we had our own way of connecting. It's hard to describe, but when I can, it makes perfect sense. I believe our spirit speaks in energy and no one is more open to hearing it than a young child - Milton had a happy spirit and a beautiful soul.
He struggled to communicate outwardly after the stroke. My father said he was quite the comedian before the stroke and the only one in the family he could be himself around - perhaps the leverage of Milton not being my mom’s father took the edge off. I struggled with communication around that time too, but mainly because I was small, and words were still new to me. So instead, it seemed Milton and I communicated through energy and limited word selection. Joy, curiosity, humor - these energies were ever present. There was something unspoken but deeply understood between us.
It wasn’t until I was about nine or ten that it clicked, Milton wasn’t my biological grandfather. My mom had always told me her father died when she was young, but I didn’t fully register that Milton and I didn’t share blood. When I did, I was disappointed.
If he and I weren’t related, then how could I possibly have inherited his writing gift? In my tiny brain, gifts were passed down genetically. You became what your family was. That’s what made sense.
Of course, I know now that’s not true. But back then, it shook me. I stopped believing I could be a writer. And after Milton died when I was 11, I pushed both writing and the memory of him away.
But he never left. Not really. He’s still here, all the time. I only have to think of him, to honor the love we shared for writing, and it’s like his essence rushes back in through the door.
Milton was a writer at heart, and a good one. It was his hobby. I have a folder of his writings in my desk that I pull out often to read. His money job was running a gasket company in St. Louis, but he retired long before I came along. My grandma had been his secretary (spicy, right?), but it wasn’t like that. They were best friends. Milton took care of things around the house when my grandmothers husband died suddenly, and his late wife had even given her blessing for them to marry and spend the rest of their lives enjoying each other, and they did. Times were different back then and Milton and my grandma Rose were special individuals. Their travels all over the world together still inspire the direction of my life today.
When I was in first and second grade, I made little books and brought them over to show him. I wanted to be just like Milton. And now, even though we aren’t “technically” related, I know in every way that matters, he is my family.
Imposter syndrome doesn’t wait until you’re an adult. Kids feel it. Famous people must feel it too. Everyone does, right? But it’s especially gut-wrenching when you’re sharing your heart with the world, a world that’s often quick to judge, quick to blame, and quick to criticize behind screens and keyboards.
Still, I’m going to do it anyway. For Milton, and for myself and that little girl that dreamed of writing something that people wanted to read - something that made others feel something, anything.
I’ve set a goal to give this blogging thing a try for a year and see where it goes. I am committed to pouring my heart and soul into these quick ‘journal entries’ in hopes someone enjoys my internal banter. Plus, I have a magical summer ahead and a life that, right now, feels wide open and exciting and the world needs more of that. If I can spark that sense of possibility in even one person, I know Milton would be proud.
xxoo
C
