Does my imposter syndrome look big in this?

Kia ora, e hoa mā

Whether you’re new to The End is Naenae, or you’ve been hanging out with me for a while, I’d like to welcome you and thank you. When you’re a writer, being read is great. Being read by people who are thoughtful, good and kind is almost more than you can hope for. And so I’d say I’m more than lucky.

A few days ago I wrote a thing, and it’s gone way better than I expected, with a bunch of new readers tuning in. What the hell? I’m a lady in my mid-40s, so it’s the first time in a long while I’ve felt popular. I simply never saw it coming. Will I actually get a boyfriend now? Only time will tell.

This thing I wrote made me feel nervous: I nearly didn’t hit ‘publish’. It was simply too nerdy, too earnest, too full of stuff I care about but wish I understood better. I had a confidence wobble. I messaged my buddy Awhina.

Awhina’s been my mate for more than twenty years, since university days - when we should have done a lot more stupid shiz, only she was sensible and I was pregnant. She’s featured in some other posts, including here - important stuff you might like to reflect on. My plaintive message said that I was writing a thing: would she have time to review? She didn’t have time, but she reviewed anyway. She was airfrying dinner for her kids as she read. She’d promised them chicken nuggets, but could only find chicken tenders. The children were disappointed.

Now, Awhina is the kind of person who’ll face a situation like this and ask, ‘Why don’t I have chicken nuggets?’. Whereas I’m the type who’ll ask, ‘Why did I have children?’. But whatever, we’re friends. It shows that difference doesn’t have to divide us.

There’s a point here, I promise. Finding your voice is a tricky business - as a writer, or simply as a human. Confidence has stifled mine at times. As my post is shared amongst new folks, I’m torn between sheer delight and a level of anxiety that makes me want to hide under the bed.

What I’m saying, I guess, is that finding your voice is one thing - but then you’ve got to figure out what to do with it. A bunch of people can tell you where to put apostrophes or how to conjugate verbs. Very few can walk with you, over years, through your faltering pronunciation of place names and your still-developing ideas on stuff, quietly helping you inch closer to the person you’ve started to realise you want to be.

That kid I was pregnant with in university days - you’ll know if you read my stuff - turned out to be trans. I love the crap out of him and I tell everyone constantly, with the non-stop cheerful belligerence of a Briscoes sale. I get questions about being trans, and I often don’t have the answer. But I like the fact that people ask, when it’s in good faith, because it means they want to know - even if the questions themselves are off beam. I think about what it means to be nurtured, when you don’t quite know what you’re doing. I think about my chum Awhina, my other friends like her.

I’d guess it’s not easy being that person, the nurturer - exhausting, sometimes, and a pit where you sink the emotions you’d rather spend on something or someone else. It’s a role no one should feel they’re forced to play. But if you are that person, know you’re kind of special. You’re taking one for the team.

And even on the days we’re furthest from the trophy, tripping over our feet and falling on our butts, the team still knows we’re lucky to have you.

Anna