I am a writer who is afraid of writing; I am a speaker who is afraid to speak to more than two people at a time; I am an activist who is full of courage but always fearful; I am a reader who reads and dreams at the same time; I am an educator who is constantly learning; I am real and fake and often cannot tell the difference at a given moment; I love people but feel safer on my own; I am always on the run but cannot hide;
My home is where my heart is which may or may not be where my home is;
I love to take photos but after 20 years still cannot get it right – but just occasionally very occasionally I get it right and that makes all the failures worthwhile;
I am full of confidence and drowning in self-doubt;
Each day without fail I wake up with anxiety but I always manage to make it through the day;
I am visible and therefore vulnerable to shame; I am invisible and therefore vulnerable to being silenced; I am connected but full of disconnections to people, to situations, to experiences.
I have a longing yet my belly is full. I am imperfect but yearn to be perfect.
I have passed through many places, created many spaces, loved many people, made many wrongs but in all my life I do not know what I have done.
This is me and with whom I must live with on the most intimate of terms – but I know with the certainty that night follows the day that I am not alone in this.