“All of these lines across my face
Tell you the story of who I am
So many stories of where I’ve been
And how I got to where I am
But these stories don’t mean anything
When you’ve got no one to tell them to
It’s true, I was made for you”

— The Story, Brandi Carlile

Hi friend. Yes, the you Brandi is referring to is you, sweet reader on Medium. Also, I know what you’re thinking, I’m 25, how many lines do I really have on my face? The answer is enough, for now.

If I had to…

There are 4.4K stories on Medium under the tag “Imposter Syndrome”.

Is it just me, or is that a lot of fraudulent behavior?

Clearly, this phenomenon is trending. But the real question that I keep asking myself is, is it still a syndrome if we’re all imposters?

If so many of us struggle with the feeling that we are frauds in that which we preach and do, then is it still an individual issue, or could it also not be something more?

When a Syndrome Becomes An Epidemic

Back in 1978, psychologists Pauline Rose Clance and Suzanne Imes introduced the imposter syndrome to describe high achieving…

We talk about enlightenment like we are narrating the end of a Disney movie.

“And they lived happily ever after.”

It’s bittersweet when a story ends where we know it has really just begun again.

When we make space for change and do the difficult work, we are rewarded with light and happy endings. But happy endings have no end; they are just happy moments with questions that linger.

Questions like how do we introduce our new light into our previous shadow? Or to the shadows that surround us?

How do we reenter?

The stories we tell each other and…

To find space is to surrender space.

Like most things, it’s cyclical, which means it’s infinite. Or finite. Whichever version brings you more comfort.

If I am seated in a chair and leave, that space becomes available for someone else. Or it simply becomes free, unoccupied, or otherwise not engaged.

I occupy many seats in the inner auditorium of my existence. I also occupy the stage and the shadows behind the curtains. There are seats that have been taken for years now. Reserved by stern and decaying critiques. …

Dying is uncomfortable. At least, that’s what it feels like: uncomfortable.

Even the word death feels uncomfortable to utter. Like a fatal breath warning you to close your eyes. Yes, shut your eyes. Comfort yourself in the darkness you fear.

But we die every day. Some days more than others.

So maybe it’s not death that’s uncomfortable, maybe it’s resistance.

The thing about death that I find most terrifying is the not being with myself, or being with only myself, forever. I’m not this catastrophic in real life, but my fear clearly enjoys the drama.

In these moments of anxiety…

It’s difficult to see things clearly when your eyes are closed.

We say we waste a third of our lives sleeping, but our eyes aren’t really closed when we dream. In fact, in many ways, they are wide open.

It’s ironic that we work to find purpose, to find freedom, or to survive because work already is purpose, freedom, and survival.

We live in a means to an end, but the end never comes. Not in the way that we think it will anyway. …