I Was Made To Feel Like An Imposter.

 

Lately, it feels like the universe has been pulling threads loose inside me—old wounds, forgotten memories, beliefs I never questioned. As if my soul has decided it’s time. Time to reveal what’s been quietly shaping my life from the shadows. Time to release what has been weighing me down.

One of those things is imposter syndrome—a voice that has been whispering for years, and instead of facing it, I brushed it off. I knew it was there, gnawing at me, but survival mode teaches you how to ignore your own pain.

Growing up, my childhood was a mixture of good and bad—like sunlight breaking through a storm. But everything changed after my parents died. The world shifted under my feet. People I trusted turned away. Suddenly I wasn’t a child anymore—I was an orphan.

And being an orphan is its own kind of grief.

It’s learning to swallow your needs because there is no one to turn to.

It’s being made to feel like a burden simply for existing.

It’s hearing the silence of people who once promised to care.

I watched people reveal who they truly were—wolves in sheep’s clothing—and somewhere along the way, I took their projections and made them my identity. Worthless. Too much. Unwanted. Those wounds hardened into beliefs, and those beliefs became scars.

I taught myself to survive by doing everything alone. I called it independence, but it was really fear dressed up as strength.

“If I don’t do it, who will?”

“Better do it myself than depend on anyone.”

So when someone genuine tried to help, I refused—not because I didn’t need them, but because accepting help felt dangerous. Help, to me, came with strings. Pity. Debt. Disappointment. And without knowing it, I closed the door on opportunities, blessings, and connection—because trauma doesn’t just hurt, it blocks.

Now I’m standing at the edge of a breakthrough. I feel it—like something is brewing beneath the surface. I catch myself imagining a future where I am finally living, not just surviving: traveling the world, no financial stress, soft mornings, freedom. I see myself being interviewed, laughing on camera, entering rooms I once only dreamed of.

And then the thoughts come:

“You don’t deserve that life.”

“Who do you think you are?”

“That world isn’t meant for someone like you.”

It’s wild how the mind tries to drag you back to the familiar, even when the familiar is pain.

Recently I had a conversation with my cousin. She also struggles with feeling undeserving. When our uncle died—someone she deeply loved—she couldn’t grieve him freely. Family projected jealousy onto her, as if her pain needed permission. As if closeness disqualified her from mourning. It reminded me how people can make you feel small even in moments that should hold tenderness.

The world can be cruel. And yet—we are still here, trying.

These days, I am learning to be gentler with myself. Healing is excruciating. It is slow and unglamorous. Some days it feels like peeling skin that has grown too tight. But I am practicing. I am imagining what it would feel like to open the door when help arrives, without suspicion, without pride, without assuming the worst.

Because the truth is:

I do need help.

I am just still learning how to ask for it.

Maybe this chapter isn’t about proving I can do everything alone.

Maybe it’s about unlearning the lie that needing support makes me a burden.

A cycle is closing.

And for the first time, I’m making space—not just to survive, but to receive.