Dear Imposter, You Are Not

The first time I experienced imposter syndrome was at my old job. I’d been having a terrible week, and it reflected on my work. My boss called me out on it and after we talked, she asked, “why do you think you suck at your job?” I couldn’t really explain why I felt that way, even though before that week I’d been killing it at my job. So, my boss suggested I read up on the imposter syndrome. I did and when I was done, I said to myself, “well, this is some white people shit.”

But, if you’ve ever felt a fear so intense it keeps you up at night, so crippling it has your thoughts in a spiral; leaving you unable to function, then you’d know it’s not. It’s really not. 70 percent of people will experience imposter syndrome at least once in their lifetime, and for some people, it happens more often than they’d like to admit.

To be clear, you are not actually unskilled, and the people around you may not think that you are, you just feel this way.

For some people, especially successful people, imposter syndrome is the reason they excel at everything they do. It’s their motivation. Think of it this way: you are so terrified people will discover you are incapable, that you go out of your way to ensure that you are not. And even when you succeed at everything you do, it’s not enough because you don’t believe your accomplishment has anything to do with you or your skill. Like an artist who paints a masterpiece but thinks he only did so because he had the right paint colour. It’s a never-ending cycle of succeeding, to prove you aren’t a failure.

For other people, imposter syndrome can be crippling, limiting. They are afraid to try because they are afraid to fail.

Me, I think many people don’t believe they experience imposter syndrome because we live in a society of extremes. People glamorise the hustle, same way they glamorise laziness, and if you pick one, you best ride that train till you die.

It’s work, work, keep working, look for the next best thing, be your best self. And in doing this, you don’t stop to think, why the fervent hustle? You don’t ask: Am I trying to prove something, or do I really want to do this?

And if you choose laziness, well, you’ve settled into that and if you try to go after something you really want, people might think you actually give a shit about something. And you really can’t have that. Plus, what if you fail?

You know what’s awful? Being great at something and living in fear that you aren’t. Or succeeding at something and giving the credit to everyone or everything but you. There is a need for humility, but not when it wrecks your self-worth.

There are 5 types of Imposter Syndrome

  1. The Perfectionist.
  2. The Expert.
  3. The Superhero.
  4. The Natural Genius.
  5. The Soloist.

The Perfectionist: *carves a beautiful plate*

Perfectionist: But wait, what’s that crack?

Admirer: I don’t see any crack.

Perfectionist: It’s right there.

Admirer: I really don’t see any crack.

Perfectionist: IT’S RIGHT THERE!

Admirer: There’s honestly no crack.

Perfectionist: “smashes the plate.” I’ll have to carve a new plate. I can’t have cracks in my plates.


The perfectionist is always unsatisfied with his work. No matter how great it looks, to him, it can be better.

The Expert:

Expert: There are 10,000 types of plates.

Random Person: Actually, there are 10,001 types of plate.

Expert: *Panics* HOW DID I NOT KNOW THIS?

Random Person: It’s not a big deal, this information came out like 5 seconds ago.


The expert is always trying to know more, because he feels what he knows is never enough.

The Superhero:

Superhero: Yes, I’m a Plate Carver, but I really should be able to make plates out of thin air too. And I WON’T STOP UNTIL I HAVE AND EVERY KITCHEN IN THE WORLD HAS ENOUGH PLATES.

The superhero feels inadequate and is always pushing himself to do more, even at his expense.

The Natural Genius:

Natural Genius: Watch me make plates out of thin air.

Random Person: But you can’t.

Natural Genius: *Tries and tries and tries, finally gives up and goes, I’M SUCH A FAILURE.

The natural genius will set big or unrealistic goals for himself. He expects to be great at everything at once and when he fails or isn’t, he wallows in it and refuses to try again.

The Soloist:

Soloist: I’m going to wash 10,000 plates all by myself.

Random Person: Let me help.

Soloist: NO! Help is for the weak.

A soloist measures his competence by being able to do everything himself. He always sees asking for help as a sign of weakness, and he’d rather fail or procrastinate than do so.

You could feel like an imposter because you:

  • Come from a family of over-achievers.
  • Stay around insanely critical people.
  • Are too hard on yourself.

I’ve been described as a perfectionist by some people. While I don’t agree with that assessment, I hate to fail, especially at things I think I should be great at. And the worst place to fail at is life. Especially when people are looking at you like, “okay you’ve got a lot of potential, you should not be failing.” Or even worse, when they’ve placed you on a pedestal.

I feel like an imposter sometimes. It comes and it goes, like a cold you think you’ve gotten rid of but is strangely persistent. That’s life, and if it went exactly the way we wanted it’d be boring.

If you sometimes feel like an imposter too, it helps to think of it this way:

  • Let go of the pressure. You are human, you will fail, and that’s okay. You cannot be great at everything.
  • Embrace your achievements… and failures. It’s not what you accomplish that defines you, it’s who you are regardless of those things.
  • Validations are great, but ultimately, you don’t need them. Human validation is short-lived and given sparingly. You cannot rely on them.
  • Don’t compare yourself to others. There’s really no need for that.

There’s room for failure and weakness, and yours isn’t any bigger or terrible. An actual imposter is a person who pretends to be someone they are not. And you and your skills are as authentic as they come.

Thank you for stopping by, see you in my next post!


Lessons from Job


I want to say happy weekend, but I don’t want to be presumptuous in case you’ve decided to have a shitty weekend. Honestly, someone needs to tell the “happiness is a choice,” groupies on social media to chill because though happiness is a choice, sadness is a certainty; for one simple reason, it’s the precursor to happiness.

Confused? Me too. I’ve had a strange week.

So, I’ve been reading the book of Job and I just want to say Bible stories are fascinating! There are lot of mind-boggling moments, moments that will leave you confused (but not for long), and moments that will leave you laughing because I believe God has a sense of humour.

Job’s story was heart-breaking. I read it and I thought damn, please God don’t do this to me. I’m not built for this, I cry when my favourite TV character dies.
But in reading, I found lessons that apply to life in general and I thought I’d share them with you. So, here goes:

Lesson 1
Shit Happens: And sometimes, it’s not because you’ve done anything to deserve it. In Job’s case, a world of shit happened to him. He lost his children, his wealth, and everything that mattered to him in days. What Job lost is the equivalent of Elon Musk losing his wealth and going to leave at a homeless shelter. And get this, Job had done absolutely nothing wrong. In fact, when I thought about it, everything that happened to Job was because he had done everything right. Job’s story is the very definition of “bad things happen to good people” with no plausible explanation why.
When something bad happens to you, you could think it’s because of a mistake, or choice you made, and maybe it is. But sometimes, bad things happen even when you do good things, even when you do everything right and have only good intentions. And it’s not your fault. Sometimes, bad things happen to see if you’ll remain good when they do. I know, I hear it too, but that’s life.

Lesson 2
Get Good Friends; Like I said, Job’s story was heart-breaking, but you know what made it worse? His friends. Job insisted on his innocence, he insisted he was a righteous man who had done no wrong and he was right. His friends, well, they thought otherwise. They insisted Job had done some despicable thing and God was punishing him for it, because how else do you explain going from wealthy to destitute in a matter of days. Job’s friends could have stood by him, comforted him; he was at his lowest but instead they judged him and made him feel worse.
No matter what you get, get friends who will support and defend you; that right there is gold. You are human, and you are going to make mistakes, it’s inevitable. So, you don’t need people around you who will judge you and be like, “I told you so!” You don’t need people who will happily call out your stupidity. You need someone who will say, “wow, you were really stupid, but don’t worry, I got you.” Or someone who will defend you in your absence. Someone who will pull you back when they see you about to make a mistake. Someone who will seat with you at your worse and make you feel better.
And always be ready to do the same.

Lesson 3
You Can Come Back from Anything: Not death though, and apparently not a universal cancelling on social media LOL. Seriously though, Job came back from the worst thing that could happen to anyone, and he came back stronger. And I know you are thinking, of course he got everything back, God restored him, he had supernatural help. Well, so do you.
With God, the support of good friends and a Can-do attitude (if there’s a sale on the last one, ya’ll should let me know ASAP, so I can order. I’m a little low right now.), you can come back from anything.
Alright, thank you for stopping by. See you in my next post.

PS: I’m trying to decide if my next post should be a Valentine’s Day themed poem or short story but I’m not sure which. I was going to put up something…. uhm happy for us sad, single people but I know ya’ll already have dates, (traitors). So, I will not be doing that.

So, which would be prefer, poem or short story? Leave your thoughts in the comment section.



So, I was watching this sitcom the other day, called Two guys and a girl. They had this episode called Homecoming. This is the point of the episode; Homecoming is a time where friends from college meet up to catch up and be like hey how’s life being for you? Or in true Nigerian fashion so, where are you now?

So, the girl in the sitcom is excited to meet up with her friends. But it’s not because she misses them, oh no. In fact, she actually hates them. But she works for this big company now and she’s met a gorgeous guy and she wants to show him off and make her friends jealous.

Anyway, as the episode reaches the end, her friends laugh at her because the guy she shows off is not a rich music producer like she says, but an average guy who repairs Jukeboxes.

He goes, oh so you are ashamed of me? And she goes, of course not! Anyway, this is a sitcom. She learns her lesson and they live happily ever after. I think, I’ll have to get more episodes.

Oh, and the guy lies to his friends and tells them she’s a stripper so they aren’t intimidated by her money. So, yeah.

Anyway, let’s not get carried away. That sitcom was done in the early 90s. They didn’t have twitter, Facebook, Tiktok or Instagram then. Now, you don’t need a Homecoming or a reunion to let your friends know you are a baller. All you need is really nice photo and an even nicer caption. You could be legit lying and no would know. Social media, such a wonderful thing, isn’t it?

And if your friends from school go out of their way to throw and invite you for a reunion. You know it’s not because they genuinely want to see you. Okay, maybe 5% wants to see you. The others want to show off and ask you where you are now.

And if you feel you are nowhere now, you either beg off or bow to the pressure, go and maybe subconsciously pretend to be something that you are not.

I guess the point of this is many people measure their life’s achievement and success by what they see on social media or in someone else’s life. It’s like: this person is at this point in their life, so I should be there too. Or this person took this path to success, so I should do that too.

If I’m being honest, sometimes when I see a friend or some random person in a place that I feel like I should be in. I get sad, eat popcorn and listen to sad songs. It’s impossible not to feel like this sometimes, and if you don’t, you are simply not human.

People are always going to shove their success in your face. Even people that you don’t expect to do so. And when this happens, you either get angry, feel threatened, and go out of your way to be better than them. Or you get depressed and, well, eat popcorn.

But here’s the thing. It’s not a competition. If you pay your bills, handle your shit and are working hard to get to a point where you are content, then you shouldn’t care.

There’s always someone who is going to be better than you, someone who is going to throw their success in your face, someone who is going to go out of their way to make you feel you are not doing enough. Like you are behind, or like you will never catch up. If you pay attention to every single person who does this, you are going to get depressed as shit.

Your achievements are not small because someone else’s appear bigger

And you are not late, because someone got there first.

And even if you are in a point in your life where you feel like more should happen for you, but isn’t. Don’t feel bad, there are levels to this thing and you will get to yours, as long as you keep playing the game.

So, the next time some obnoxious person invites you for a hangout or reunion, go or don’t.

The next time someone asks, so where are you now? Answer or don’t.

The answer is yours to give and if a situation will make you feel any little or less of yourself then by all means, have the reunion after, ya’ll die. Aren’t nobody coming with a Benz to the afterlife.

To be honest, I’m probably going to finish writing this, feel good then see some obnoxiously cute couple on IG, ignore my own advice, get some popcorn and get low on sad songs.

Or, I can tell myself the truth, which is, the Duke of Hastings is my soul mate and once he realizes that, he’s going to leave Daphne for me. (This is a Bridgerton reference in case you were wondering).

The popcorn and sad songs are more likely, though.

What I’m saying is, don’t let anyone intimidate with what they have. You don’t need a Homecoming to prove anything to anyone. You just need to believe in yourself, stay optimistic, and keep the hustle going. God blesses hard work and He will bless yours.

If you, however, buy a Benz and invite me for a reunion or hangout when I haven’t bought mine. Well, I’ll see you in the afterlife.

Thank you for stopping by. See you in my next post.

Oh and don’t forget to click on the follow button. Thanks!


The Affair?

Ifeanyi sat there, waiting, watching; his car parked just across the street, opposite the cream coloured bungalow, his fingers tapping impatiently on the steering wheel. He would love to be anywhere but here, anywhere, even stuck in the miserable two hour traffic he always faced when driving back from work, but he wasn’t. Instead, here he was, parked opposite the house where Emeka said Chisom was right now, cheating on him with another man. The thought left him weak, breathless and angry all at once. He was so angry he had to take deep breaths at intervals to calm his nerves. His phone rang, he glanced at it; it was Stephen from work, probably calling to ask him about next week’s report. He busied it and switched it to airplane mode. The stupid report could wait, the world could wait, this couldn’t. If Chisom was cheating on him, he needed to see for himself, with his own two eyes. He needed to leave here with evidence. He hoped it was one that proved Emeka to be a lying bastard. He needed that now, more than he needed the sun to come up tomorrow.

When Emeka had first told him, he had laughed. He had laughed so hard that his stomach hurt and his glass of Vodka spilled on his brand new jeans. Then he looked at Emeka’s face and saw that Emeka wasn’t laughing with him. Emeka was a joker, he joked about everything, but there had been no trace of a smile on his unmistakably serious face. Ifeanyi had gone silent, like someone who had been told to get his affairs in order because he had a month to live. His hands had shaken so badly that he had had to set his glass down for fear that it would fall to the ground. Then he had shaken his head slowly, as if coming out of a trance.

“No,” he had said, shaking his head. His eyes begging Emeka to stop his cruel joke, but Emeka was unwavering.

“I saw her,” he said. “I saw her with my own eyes.”

Ifeanyi had left his car at the bar and ordered an Uber. His hands were still shaking, but not from shock, from anger, and he knew that if he got on the road with his car, he would kill someone. When he got home and Chisom opened the door with a smile, he had stood at the door staring at her. Staring and staring and staring, while Chisom stood there looking very confused and innocent. He had wanted to ask her; are you cheating on me? Are you fucking another man? But he couldn’t even bring himself to say the words. Instead, he had walked past Chisom, slamming the bedroom door in her face. She had cried that night, hurt by his behaviour, and he had shouted at her through the closed door to “SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

Later that night, he had lain next to her in bed, watching her sleep: her long dark lashes fluttering against her face, her bosom rising and falling at her slow, even breathing, and he wondered, his fist clenched how this beautiful, innocent wife of his could cheat on him. He had tossed and turned for the rest of the night. His mind in distress and finally at 3am, he had called Emeka demanding proof. Emeka had readily obliged with the address of the house where he saw Chisom with the other man, even insisting on coming to show it to him personally. But Ifeanyi had refused. He wanted to do it alone.

So now here he was, hoping to see that Emeka was wrong. To prove, as Emeka had so simply put it, that Chisom wasn’t ‘a lying, cheating whore.’

Ifeanyi checked his wristwatch; it was 7pm. Chisom had told him she was going to church. Choir practice, she had said. She was singing a special number so she would be back later than usual. He had watched her walk away, her scarf tied stylishly on her head, her hips swaying in her tight, long skirt. He had given her a 30 minute head start before grabbing his car keys from the table. He didn’t doubt her before when she said she was going to choir practice. She sang in church every Sunday, though half the time he thought her singing could use a little tuning. He didn’t use to think her skirts were too tight too, but after what Emeka told him, how could he not? He wondered about everything now, her skirt being too tight, and her favourite lipstick being too red. He wondered if that was how the other man liked it. Did he insist she wear it whenever she was came to see him? Did he like the taste as much as he did? And what about that underwear she bought a month ago? So lacey, so different. He had been delighted when she bought it, glad that she was spicing things up for him, but now all he could think about was her wearing it for that other man.

He checked the time again, 7:08pm. Time was stalling, dragging, like a child licking his ice cream slower so that it would last longer. He thought about going into the house, just badging in and catching them in the act, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It was one thing to imagine it, but seeing another man touching his wife, riding her, made him cringe in ways he couldn’t even explain.
So he sat there, and he waited, and he hoped with all his might that his wife didn’t come out of the cream coloured bungalow.

He closed his eyes and massaged his temples. The waiting and thinking and hoping was giving him a migraine. But even now, he couldn’t help but think about how he came to be with Chisom. He remembered it vividly, the day his mother called him on the phone, sounding triumphant, as if she had just found the Holy Grail.

“My son,” she had smiled into the phone, discarding with pleasantries and going straight to the point.

“I have found a wife for you. A good girl, very respectful, you will like her.”

Ifeanyi had rolled his eyes. Mama had ‘found’ him a wife every year for the last three years, and every time she did he would patiently turn her down by telling her he already had a girl he wanted to marry. A girl that she knew about. His excuse had worked every time, but this time it hadn’t. This time Mama had snorted as if she was trying to get rid of something vile stuck in her throat.

“Is it that one?” She had asked. “That Lagos girl that her eyes has open, that is who you want to bear my grandchildren. I don’t want! Ifeanyi I say I don’t want!” She had screamed, causing him to move the phone away to save his ear drum.

Ifeanyi had been surprised. Mama knew of Ada, his girlfriend. Mama liked Ada, and before now Mama had never said an unkind word about Ada. She had always smiled and welcomed her whenever he brought her home. Sure, she called every year with a prospective bride, but it never amounted to anything. He just assumed she did that to remind him that the time was coming for him to get married. Also, Ada had been nothing but nice and respectful to her. He could not understand her sudden dislike for Ada. But he had shrugged it off. She was his mother. He knew how to handle her. He was wrong.

With the other brides Mama had not insisted, but with Chisom she had come down on Ifeanyi with the force of a bulldozer. Mama had taken to calling him day and night, driving Ifeanyi insane and making Ada wonder what in the hell was going on. When out of frustration Ifeanyi had stopped picking her calls, Mama had tied her wrapper, carried her suitcase and journeyed, determined to Lagos. She would make Ifeanyi see sense. Did she not carry him in her womb for 9 months? Did she not sell all her wrappers to pay his school fees after his father died? He was her son; she was his mother, and she would make him see sense. Ada had opened the door to welcome the woman she always thought would be her mother-in- law, but Mama had aggressively pushed past her. She had turned down everything Ada offered, even a cold bath, turning her face away and waiting for her son to come home. Ada, completely baffled, had called Ifeanyi at work, fear and apprehension in her voice.

“Ifeanyi Mama is here, she won’t talk to me. What is going on?”

Ifeanyi had tried to make Mama see reason.

“She is the one I want to marry Mama.” He had said.

“Tufia! Over my dead body! You will not marry this ashawo while I’m still alive!” Mama had replied.

“I love her, Mama.”

“Don’t worry. You will love Chisom too.”

“We have been together for five years, Mama”

“And so what! She has lived with you for five years when you have paid nothing on her head. Did her mother not give her home training?”

It was like punching a wall. He came back hurt every time. Ada had tried too.

“Tell me what I did, Mama,” she had implored “let me make it right.” But Mama had simply ignored her. In desperation, Ifeanyi had turned to his Uncles. Maybe they could convince his mother, but to his surprise they all sided with her.

“Listen to your mother” one of them had said, “she cannot lead you astray.”

The other one had simply asked where Ada was from and then shook his head when Ifeanyi told him.

“You can’t marry her na,” he concluded “she’s not from our place.”

Even Emeka had agreed with them.

“Just marry the village girl” he advised. “You don’t go into a marriage to be happy, that’s what mistresses are for.”

Still, Ifeanyi had refused. Emeka was a womaniser. He didn’t believe in love, Ifeanyi thought. He didn’t understand. He thought about that now, how resilient he had been. How he had loved Ada so much that he couldn’t bear to be married to anyone else. But he loved his mother too, and he finally caved when she fell sick and blamed it on him. Telling everybody who cared to listen that Ifeanyi did not want her to see her grandchildren. Ifeanyi did not want her to be happy. Ifeanyi had forgotten how she suffered for him after his father died. And so he agreed. “Okay, Mama” he had said resigned. Mama had recovered with the speed of light, and Ifeanyi had agonised over how to tell Ada.

The day Mama had finally brought Chisom, Ifeanyi had braced himself, expecting to see an impish village girl, but he was stunned. Chisom was beautiful, with curves in all the right places. He had expected a docile prude in bed and was afraid that she would just lie there while he did all the work, but he was pleasantly surprised to find that it was not so. Chisom was skilled in bed, shocking him every time she agreed to do something in bed that Ada would never have agreed to. He had looked at her, lying next to him after a long night of great sex had and thought that maybe his mother’s choice wasn’t so bad after all. She wasn’t the love of his life, but she would do.

He said nothing to Ada. He didn’t tell her he slept with Chisom on the bed that they bought together after Ada made him give away the previous one because it made his back ache. He didn’t tell her the weekend he took drinks to Chisom’s father, with his Uncles and Mama standing proudly beside him. He explained his absence by telling her about some work trip that he couldn’t possibly miss. He didn’t tell her when Emeka helped him print out the wedding invitation cards. He didn’t tell her he had caved and closed the door on 5 years of their lives. Five years of Ada holding his hand every time he went for a job interview. Lending him her money every time he had none, staying up at night with him on the anniversary of his father’s death because it hurt too much. Defending him to her friends every time they asked why Ifeanyi hadn’t put a ring on her finger. How could he? He knew telling her would break her, and he couldn’t bear to see that. So he didn’t tell her until Ada saw pictures of his traditional marriage on Facebook. After he had told her they needed to take a break so he could work on his mother. Ada had been stunned. She had crumbled to the ground, wailing, holding onto her stomach like someone had viciously taken a knife to it. She had cried for days, refusing to eat or sleep or see anyone. The weight of Ifeanyi’s betrayal leaving her crushed and dejected. Finally she had got herself together, drove to Ifeanyi’s home, the home his mother had assumed they shared for five years and cursed and spat in his face.

That was two years ago. And as Ifeanyi sat in his car waiting for his cheating wife to come out, he wondered if Ada ever forgave him. He wondered if he would be sitting here waiting for Ada to come out of the cream coloured bungalow. He looked at the time again, 8pm. He had been waiting for almost an hour. A hawker passed, stopping at his window to ask him if he wanted to buy oranges, but he closed his window and the hawker walked away. He looked at his time again, 8:03pm. Why was this taking so long? He took his phone off airplane mode and called her number. It rang twice, but she didn’t pick up. He flung his phone. That bitch! He thought, was she ignoring his calls or was she too busy fucking the other man to hear her phone ringing? He looked at the time again, 8:05pm. He couldn’t take it anymore.

He got out of the car and made his way across the street. In his anger, he didn’t see the car coming towards him. He didn’t hear people screaming at him to get out of the way. He crossed the road, anger and betrayal clouding his mind, blinding him. When he finally saw the car, it was too late. It slammed into him, crushing him to the ground.

As he lay there in shock, his heart beating too fast, the blood pouring out of him, the life slowly and painfully slipping out of him. It wasn’t the face of the driver who hovered over him, asking him if he was okay that he saw. It wasn’t Chisom’s face. It was Ada’s, smiling down on him.


And Then There Was One More…

Welcome to 2020!

Or more appropriately, welcome to my blog!

Okay, I’ll quell the excitement. 2021 has been here for what 10, 12 days now? So, it’s not that new and if we are being honest, 2020 still has a sort of grasp on the New Year, “like where do you think you are going? Did I say was done?”

So “welcome to 2021” in this instance has the feeling of you walking into a haunted house wondering whether its insides will terrify or excite you. Whichever it is, welcome, it’s great to have you here. Here’s to riding the terror or excitement, or both, together.

Okay, let’s get down to business. “And then there was one more.” No, this is not some name to an exciting short story or a phrase that comes off like I’m about to drop some age old wisdom on you, nah. This is me referring to the fact that there is now one more blog about to incessantly insist that you subscribe or follow to get amazing content. What blog you ask? Well, mine, of course.

I know there are already way too many of us. So, no, I’m not about to go all sensei on you guys or tell you about how you can get rich in three simple ways, (PS: if you find an article for that, send me a link ASAP). I’m about to offer you funny, sad, angry and whinny short stories, poetry that will excite you or make you depressingly sad and occasionally words that will let you know that someone more whiny than you actually gets it.

2020 was an insanely hard year. If 2020 was a movie character, it’d be Odysseus trying to find his way home, Arya and Sansa Stark separated from their family (don’t come for me, Sansa suffered plenty too). Aang stuck in the iceberg for a 100 years and Squidward because tell me you weren’t in a constant state of exasperation and frustration for most of the year. What got me through it was the beautiful world of make-believe, the support of my friends and family, and most importantly God. If this blog does even half of that for you this year, I’d well… I think that would be really great.

So, I guess this is me saying come let us reason together. Read my short stories, relatable thoughts and poetry and leave a comment, get inspired or sad (it honestly could go either way Lol). One way or another I’m excited (and terrified) to do this with you.

And one last thing; I know I likened stepping into 2021 to walking into a haunted house (I love horror movies). But here’s the thing about haunted houses, everything is designed to scare you, but it’s not actually scary because behind it, is the absolute truth that none of it is real. So, it’s not about the haunted house per se, it’s your reaction to it. If you think it’s funny, then it is, and if you think it’s scary, then it is.

Regardless, and because life can be well, shitty, I’ll leave you with these words from my dearest friend:

“It’s scary, you are afraid of what ifs, of the unknown, it’s okay. Whatever decision you take, I want you to move forward with the thought that the universe is on your side, that you will be okay at the end of the day. That in itself, changes everything.”

Thank you for stopping by. See you in my next post.