For all the things I couldn't be

As a kid, I don't exactly know what I wanted to be, all I know was what I wanted to do: Change the world.

Cheesy and clichéd as that.

As a young girl who grew up to certain privileges, I was not really aware of the depth of what it means.

For clarification, I was not special, like those girls I went with in school. I'm just the little nobody who writes endlessly on her own, and people didn't expect so much of me. 

I expected so much of me.

The thing about imposter syndrome is that you don't even know if you deserve to have one. That's how bad I feel about myself.

A lost child. There I was in a room full of people, creating their own noise, and somewhere at the back corner of that room—I saw a version of myself. The one that is not good enough and can't do anything right. On her lifetime, she stopped believing the things she was so passionate about, and swiftly succumbed to stand behind.

I wish I have the slightest idea of how it feels like to step inside a room and be seen.

Seen. Like a typical dream girl, so bright it fills the whole room. I'm nothing like that.

Instead, I saw myself crying for all the things she didn't become, and for all the things she couldn't be. The one who is always figuring out where she really belongs, and certainly not on places she's been to.

I didn't know the depth of what it means to change the world, but I know now the depth of what it's like to fail miserably in changing your inner self.

Most days, I'm always half myself, like I left parts of me at home. But where is home?

Love,

Patricia