imposter syndrome

I think I’m always going to feel like an imposter—like someone who has no right being her age, in her job, in her relationship, or at this place in life.

The older I get, the more I realize I’ll never truly “have it all figured out.” That’s been a tough pill to swallow because, honestly, I really thought I would by now.

Growing up, I believed that every new year would unlock some newfound wisdom, like leveling up in a video game. I thought at 16, I’d be just like the girls in the movies—riding shotgun in some boy’s convertible (who suspiciously looks 29) on the way to a party overflowing with “popular” girls in crop-tops and kegs of beer.

At 18, I compared myself to my babysitter. She was cool. And if she had it all figured out, then surely, I would too. Well, reality check: she was probably just as much of a mess as I was. No matter how put-together she seemed, I now know she was likely just as terrified. Because when I hit 18, I was terrified. I wasn’t ready for college—to move away from home, from my friends, and from everything familiar. I wasn’t ready to choose a major that was somehow supposed to define my entire future. It was sickening.

At 21, I mean, I thought I would be Gandhi by now. I was supposed to have my life mapped out to a tee: traveling the world, working some dream job that paid me $3 million a year, with a dog, and a casual side hustle of going on luxurious vacations with my abundance of wealth and fame. How funny was she?

Last night, my boyfriend asked me what my five-year plan was. We’re both interviewing for “big kid” internships, slowly coming to terms with the inevitability of the college bubble popping.

He asked so innocently. And I froze. Because it hit me all at once: I am nowhere near where I thought I’d be.

Or at least, not if I choose to look at it that way.

Sure, maybe my high school years didn’t look like Project X, but they gave me something better: people, lessons, and experiences I wouldn’t trade for the world. That 16-year-old may have thought she was hot shit in her little Jeep, dreaming of TikTok fame during the pandemic, but she was actually kind of cool.

She found friends who will last a lifetime. She learned what love might one day feel like. She experienced friendships—the good, the bad, and the heartbreakingly beautiful. She started becoming the person she wanted to be. One baby step and massive f$*k up at a time. 

At 18, I wasn’t as cool as my babysitter, but I moved to Tennessee. I met the coolest roommate. I learned not to leave my laundry in the dorm dryers (because people will rob you). I learned not to drink three Pink Drinks at The Hill in one night. I learned that running away from men on the dance floor is actually incredibly humbling—but at least I didn’t have to keep talking to him.

I changed my major. Twice. I went on spontaneous trips with my family and a new group of girls who turned out to be my people. Crazy how college works.

I experienced heartbreak—the kind that knocks you on your ass. I learned how to love myself and lean on the people around me, rather than isolating myself in loneliness. I read books that made me feel less alone. I faced the communal gym and the anxiety that came with it. I met a really cute guy and immediately had a crush on him. Plot twist: I still do.

And now, at 21, I feel more out of place than ever. I am sitting across from the boy I’ve loved for a year, talking about life after college. What the fuck?

I have never been happier, but also never as scared. Because unlike every version of me before, this one comes with big-kid choices—and I kind of hate it. But here’s the thing: even though I might not “have it all figured out,” I’m doing a pretty damn good job of working toward it.

I’ve found my people—the girls who have my back through everything. I have a relationship that the little girl in me always dreamed of. I’m writing and applying for jobs I have no business applying for. And most importantly, I’m doing the best I can.

The weird thing about feeling like an imposter is that it never goes away. Not once—not 1 out of 21 times—has a December 4th come around and I’ve thought, yep, I’m exactly where I should be! And I doubt that will ever change.

So, when he smiled and asked me about my five-year plan, he didn’t mean it literally. He wanted to understand my dreams. What I wanted those five years to look like, what they should feel like.

And as funny as it sounds, the answer is simple: I want to do my best. I want to get better at being where my feet are. I want to be present. I want to love the work I do, no matter how many zeros are on the paycheck. I want to hold on to the kind of love I have right now. I want to live somewhere that makes me uncomfortable. I want to try new jobs, new restaurants, and explore parts of the world that might hold a slice of my future.

I want joy. Not fleeting happiness, but joy—the kind that sinks into your bones and makes you feel alive. I want to raise a family and be half the mom mine was to me. I want joy in every corner of my life.

No, I can’t give you a five-year plan. But I can tell you how I want every year in between to feel.

I’ll never have it all figured out. That’s a fool’s dream. I’ll always feel like an imposter in my own life—but I’m learning to find beauty in that. In not knowing. In trusting that today is enough. Because tomorrow isn’t promised—so why waste time worrying about it?