I'm a scroller.
Not through social media,
Well,
That too,
But through my own words.
The endless document on my laptop titled book writing.
Momentary downloads of insight land in my internal hard drive,
Some of which I jot down feverishly into this ever-growing dock.
Others get buried in my long to-do list and vanish into the ether,
Never to be found again.
I scroll through pages of unfinished drafts,
Lists of prompts,
Half-formed topics and story starters,
Waiting for their moment.
Most of the time,
I don't mind.
It feels like wandering through a garden of possibilities.
But sometimes,
The scrolling becomes its own trap.
In those moments,
The old imposter stories return.
Comparisons,
Doubt,
The temptation to imitate polished five-steps-to-healing lists that promise quick fixes and easy answers.
The truth is,
I don't want to write like that.
I want to tell stories.
I want to connect through lived experience and open-ended questions,
Not through promises I can't keep.
Still,
When I'm stuck or feeling unworthy,
I wonder,
Is this writer's block or imposter syndrome?
Are they two sides of the same coin?
And maybe the bigger question,
Does imposter syndrome ever really go away?
After my dad died,
I joined a book writing program.
Six months of classes,
And I'd have the entire product dialed and delivered,
Or so I believed.
Instead,
The program became a humbling lesson in trust and flow.
Every class began with a guided meditation to get us out of our heads,
And ended with a deepening understanding that a book,
Or the three different drafts I concocted during the program,
Was not a product to force,
But a full-body,
Lifelong process.
The forest became my truest classroom,
Where inspired writings took shape.
The trails and trees perpetually taught me to trust.
The river whispered that flow cannot be forced.
During the program,
I had a steady sunrise date with my computer,
But nature became my sanctuary.
It reminded me that each messy draft will unravel or return in its own time.
Nature also taught me the power of no deadlines.
Stories written under pressure feel lackluster.
Resentment builds when I treat art like a checklist.
I scroll aimlessly through calendar reminders and unfinished drafts,
Losing trust in the timing of stories.
I start running and chasing control.
The forest shows me instead that surrendering creates the space for flow.
I know the flow state.
We all probably do.
It's healing.
A perfect high.
Out of body,
Yet completely embodied.
When inspiration to write or edit a draft strikes,
Everything flows.
Confidence.
Joy.
A complete immersion.
Anyone who has touched this kind of flow or oneness knows that the moment we start to chase it,
It becomes elusive.
And for me,
Without fail,
When I stress and force words,
The imposter comes to visit.
She used to appear when I taught public yoga classes.
Now she visits when I write.
The forest offers undying wisdom.
The imposter offers her own lessons in self-love and honesty.
My teacher used to say,
Things never truly go away,
They just get quieter and more subtle.
So I pay close attention and notice when she lurks in the shadows,
Eager to distract me and keep me safe from discomfort.
It's a great teaching.
Listening for her voice,
Vying to dampen my own wisdom.
But the old pattern softens.
It changes.
Writing slows her rhythm.
I see her,
The imposter.
I honour her.
I let her be.
Naming her,
Witnessing her,
Stories,
Her hooks,
Her claws.
That is my practice.
Speaking of her is how I heal.
It's how I remember she was never lacking anything,
Nor am I.
There's already enough love for us both,
And more than enough words.
And catching her doesn't stop her altogether.
Sometimes I scroll,
Sometimes I wrestle,
Sometimes I shut it all down and run to the forest.
It's about trial and error.
It's about maintaining perspective.
I'm okay with a dozen story tabs open on my laptop.
Growth doesn't happen overnight.
Living into our potential takes time.
I'm not hustling anymore.
I'm telling myself I'm right on time.
If I try and fail,
I still win.
It's still a step forward,
A learning.
It's not about being the most perfect,
Or telling the most illuminating story,
But about remaining steady with love.
So I'm celebrating the frustrating moments,
The breaks,
The breath,
The quiet seasons.
I want to honour my seasons of breaking down and breaking open.
I honour my quiet stories of slow transformation too.
An afternoon of scrolling,
An unfinished essay,
A loud inner critic.
None of these take away the truth of who I am or what I carry.
This I logically understand.
But when understanding is combined with love and trust,
The imposter lays down to sleep.
Writer's block,
Imposter syndrome,
They don't disappear,
But they do change.
They soften.
They remind me I'm still here,
Still writing,
Still learning to trust the timing of my own stories.
So rest now,
Dear one.
I've got a new healing tale to tell.
