I know that my future’s far more bright than it is bleak, so long as I continue to do my best at everything I do, and prioritize my physical and mental health. I know that I can achieve almost anything I want to, given I put my mind to it and do the work necessary to achieve that goal. I know that, unless some freak incident happens, I’ll live a long, fulfilling life. I know, I know, I know…

And yet, my heart just can’t accept reality. Why can’t it?

It’s not because of the way that I dress, or the music I listen to, or the interests I have, or the dreams I’m slowly building and striving for. My Imposter syndrome comes from much deeper places. Places likely rooted in my endless list of childhood traumas I love to ignore/downplay, because… well… it could be worse, y’know? 

Certainly, it could be worse. It could be way worse. But, that’s not important, especially since I’ve lived through many “worst-case” scenarios. What’s important is the fact that the things I’ve been through have impacted me as much as they have. 

I grew up with a constant supply of cortisol and adrenaline running through my veins. I grew up being told by some of the best doctors in the world that I wouldn’t survive past (insert any age here). I grew up in a chaotic, broken household, and jumped around from school-to-school so many times that I’ve lost count. If I’ve learned anything from the Psychology classes I’ve taken in college, it’s that I lived a textbook “shitty childhood”, which is so hard for me to accept. Because… well… it could have been way worse.