becoming her, apparently

sometimes i feel like i’m impersonating a woman who has her shit together.

like eventually someone is going to notice that i have absolutely no idea what i’m doing.

i’m 32.

i have no tits.

i have two little people who call me mommy and somehow believe i know where everything is, what happens next, and how to make basically anything better.

i’m a single mom.

i’m going through a divorce.

i survived cancer just two months ago.

i hold a high-level position in a career where people look to me for answers, decisions, direction, and leadership and sometimes i’m sitting in my office thinking, holy shit. who decided i was qualified to be the adult in this room?

i volunteer.
i show up for school.
i remember birthdays.
i make appointments.
i build spreadsheets.
i solve problems.
i pack lunches.
i answer emails.
i make magic for my kids.
i try to be a good daughter, sister, friend, mother, partner, leader, human.

and somehow…

i still feel behind.

that might be the strangest part.

because behind who?

behind the woman who stayed married?

behind the woman who still has her original body?

behind the woman who bought the house already?

behind the woman whose career moved faster?

behind the mom who remembers spirit day without the reminder notification?

behind some imaginary version of myself i created when i was 22 and thought 32-year-old me would have everything neatly figured out?

sometimes i look at my life through the lens of everything that hasn’t happened yet and completely miss the woman standing in the middle of everything that already has.

i think that’s where imposter syndrome gets me.

it convinces me that surviving doesn’t count because i didn’t do it gracefully.

that leadership doesn’t count because i still have questions.

that motherhood doesn’t count because sometimes (always) i’m exhausted.

that strength doesn’t count because sometimes (a lot of times) i cry.

that success doesn’t count because there’s still more i want.

but maybe being capable was never supposed to feel like knowing exactly what you’re doing.

maybe it’s making the call while your hands are shaking.

maybe it’s walking into the meeting anyway.

maybe it’s rebuilding a life while you’re still grieving the one you thought you’d have.

maybe it’s looking at a body that has been cut apart to keep you alive and learning that femininity was never stored in the pieces they had to take.

maybe it’s raising babies while you’re still raising yourself.

maybe it’s realizing that the woman you keep waiting to become is already here.

she’s just tired.

she’s been through some shit.

and she hasn’t had enough time to look around and realize how far she’s actually come.

i don’t think i’m behind anymore.

i think i’ve just been measuring my life against timelines that were written for a woman who never had to live mine.

and she doesn’t exist.

i do.

and considering everything it took to get her here…

i think she’s doing pretty fucking well.

soft girls burn slow.
but we’re still fucking burning.