The Imposter

time Today I signed in to the “admin” page of my website.

I have not been here in a while. It feels foreign. I am an imposter in someone else's space.

This place used to feel like home to me. I lived here week after week, pouring my story fiercely into the soft clicking keys.

Where did I go? I wonder. Often. And I haven't a clear answer.

And now, today, I have arrived. Unplanned. Caught off guard. Legal work left unfinished on my desk. I feel called to write, yet I have no particular story I want to share.

There is a beauty in extracting a piece of my heart and watching it flutter out into the depths of cyberspace. I have been longing for it. And yet I stay away.

My fingers ache for the keys. But my mind tells stories of suffering. My hands clench and pull away at the thought of sitting down and allowing the electricity to flow out of me into the screen. As if they know the spark will be too much. The shock too significant. I must resist.

Everything has changed since I have been here last. And yet not. I am still me. My head is still firmly held in its place. My heart still beats in my chest. But nothing is the same.

Where did I go? I wonder. I see glimpses. Me sitting at a coffee shop typing away about my experience. Striving to inspire.

I see her now, still. She sits beside me. Fearful of my fingers on the keys. As if she too knows the spark will be too much. The shock too significant. She may not survive.

And yet I have arrived. Grace. Fingers fluttering over the keys. I am called to write. It is no longer a story I want to share.

There is a fullness in allowing myself to Be here. Called from a deeper place. I have been longing for it. To allow myself trust.

Is this it? I wonder. The thing I wanted to share. Not a story, but a state of Being. A depth. A possibility.

I have arrived. An imposter, finally coming home.



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