Prolific. It’s a word that terrifies me.
I laugh at people who refrain from using swear words, who say it’s unprofessional or uncouth.
‘It’s just a plain Anglo-Saxon term’ I snigger. ‘It’s just a word, don’t be so silly’
But the thought of being prolific terrifies me.
I’ve been reading this morning and getting so fired up, so ready to rock the entire professional world, that I immediately felt the need to shrink back down.
Up came the old beliefs and speeches, echoed back through my history
‘Who are you to do that’
‘Who do you think you are, you’re nobody’
‘You don’t deserve support, you don’t deserve protection, you don’t deserve love’
‘You’re nothing more than a child with an overactive imagination’
You know the ‘f’ word that terrifies me more than any use of the word ‘fuck’ could?
I feel like I need to preface this blog with the unfortunate truth that, even all these years into my burnout and imposter syndrome journey, life is not perfect. I’m not always on top of things. I’m not always healthy. I still often feel like I’m flying by the seat of my pants but it’s more exhilarating than terrifying. Most of the time at least.
I’m sorry, I would love to give you the magic button solution but I’ve yet to become a charlatan.
So here’s the thing.
It is way too easy to get sucked in to a full-scale sulk, particularly after not feeling well. I might have been sliding in to one of them this afternoon; still feeling a bit tired after being down with a virus for the last couple of days but staring wild eyed at my to do list and everything that’s taken a slide in the last couple of weeks of madness (parents, you’re not alone in the summer-strife).
Sometimes everything conspired all at once and there are things on my to do list that I swear I only put there on Friday but have somehow been outstanding for weeks! Huh?
And then, I fell across this picture.
There are so many days when I feel like I have nothing of any import to say. When all the memories of my past mistakes come back to haunt me, when I feel like a fraud and a coward and a fool.
We all have this little inner voice; for some people I think that inner voice was born supportive and nice and encouraging. Those are the people who seem to have endless confidence and compassion, who push hard but not too hard and seem full of a warm, golden light.
For the rest of us, well that voice is a shithead of the highest order.
The plan was simple, wasn’t it?
The plan you made years ago. The one that involved studying and working, qualifying and practising. It had seemed so simple, so pure, like one of those luxury white marble top kitchens - all expansive space with perfect accent touches. Open. Clean. Relaxed. Ready.
Does your life feel like that marble topped kitchen now, all white and sparse and disinfected ready for use, that slight smell of Zoflora hanging in the air.
Or does it feel more like the cramped and filthy kitchen of a cat lady hoarder? Filled with tat and rubbish and things that are being saved for a rainy day or for best or for just in case?