Imposter syndrome to me feels like standing on the outside of a vast, beautiful world, pressing your hands against the glass and wondering why you’re not inside.

I look around and see people who shine—artists working with every imaginable medium, musicians conjuring magic from their instruments, athletes defying human limits, orators moving hearts with their words, and writers crafting entire worlds with nothing but sentences.
Each of them seems to possess a spark, a kind of brilliance I deeply admire.

And then I look at myself and wonder: Do I have that spark?

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be really, really good at something. Not just competent, not just “good enough,” but undeniably good.

I’ve met people who seem to excel at everything they try, while I’d be overjoyed to master one thing.

My mother, with her infinite wisdom, used to tell me that being kind-hearted, a good friend, and a great listener was more than enough. And while I believed her—because those qualities do matter deeply—it doesn’t silence the voice inside that whispers, “But what about your craft Marna? What about your talent?”

For me, writing feels like the thing I’m meant to be good at. Maybe?

It’s the thing that allows me to make sense of my inner world, to channel the tangle of thoughts and emotions inside me into something tangible.

Writing is how I’ve always wanted to connect with others and myself. But imposter syndrome steals the joy of it. It plants doubts: What if it’s not enough? What if I’m not enough?

These feelings have been amplified since my accident. Writing, which once felt as natural as breathing, now takes effort. The words don’t flow the way they used to, and my memory isn’t as sharp.

I find myself needing tools, help, and editors—things that once felt like luxuries now feel like necessities. And while I know there’s no shame in leaning on support, it’s hard not to grieve the ease I used to have.

Some days, it feels like one more hurdle in a lifetime of feeling like I don’t quite belong.

Yet, through all this self-doubt, there’s a part of me that recognizes something valuable about myself. I’ve lived 61 and a half years on this planet—soon to be 62—and in that time, I’ve come to embrace being “extra” and “a lot.” I’ve learned to honor the fact that I march to the beat of my own drummer, even when it’s isolating.

I’ve stopped apologizing for who I am. And that, I think, is something to hold onto. Even on the days when those are very thoughts, make me very, very sad.

Imposter syndrome is a thing, yes. But so is the courage to keep going in spite of it. And if I’m being completely honest transparent, sometimes it’s hard to keep putting one foot in front of the other, striving to just exist.

Writing may not feel effortless right now, but maybe that’s okay. Maybe it’s the persistence to show up anyway that matters most. Maybe being “good” at something is less about meeting a certain standard and more about finding joy in the doing, about embracing the messiness of growth.

I will say, though I still want to be really good- NO! I want to be great at something. JUST ONE THING. And I don’t think it’s too much to ask to want to find a joy in doing that.

I’m still learning how to silence that nagging voice of self-doubt, and I know it’s a process.

But one thing I’m sure of is this: The fact that I care this much—that I feel this deeply about wanting to improve, to connect, to express—has to mean something. Right?

It’s got to mean there’s something real and worthwhile inside me. And maybe that’s where the spark has always been, waiting for me to recognize whatever that is.