Everyone else is doing it better than me

I have always felt uncomfortable with the idea of the “inner child”. I think it’s because for me, I’ve never felt detached from mine. If anything, we’ve always kind of walked parallel to each other, sometimes in three-legged race, sometimes dragging the other by the hand down the path.

But I’ve never felt called to heal her or view her as this separate entity. I’d argue most of the time I feel like my current 32-year-old self is just my inner child in this adult body. In fact, viewing other adults in this way is what sharpens my compassion and stops me from imploding on a regular basis.

I feel most connected to this tender, squishy part of myself when I am most restless in my identity. It’s like all of my insecurities collect in this very specific part of my body below my ribcage. And instead of some sword of self-respect emerging from my chest to aid me in my quest to self-actualization, all I get is a prescription for omezperole.

I had someone ask me recently what I was planning on doing in the near future as it pertains to my goals with creative writing. I have been doing some form of copywriting for the last decade, whether it be freelance or corporate. I copyedit essays and research documents for engineering students who are about to become astronauts and politicians. I build resumes for my friends and write letters to insurance companies appealing claims and write social content while serving on a board for a dilapidated auditorium in my hometown.

These are acts of service that make me feel useful. My inner child is holding my hand at my side and she looks up at me and beams. But what about creatively?

I try to meditate my way back into writing poetry. But ever since I sat at my grandma’s bedside and watched her die, even a few lines of poetry springs tears to my eyes. Not for any bad or sad or mad reason, necessarily. It’s just so, so much. And if I touch it at all, well. I don’t know what will happen to me. It scares me.

So, okay. I go outside and I listen to good, loud music and let the frigid northern air burn my lungs. I look at the trees and night sky and still - nothing.

Where is my pièce de résistance?

I talk to all of my brilliant, creative friends. Writers, artists, sculptors, painters. I look up their websites and read their resumes. I am privileged to be among them.

My inner child squeezes her nails into my skin.

I look at her and think of everything I have done. With her.

All of the odds we beat. Over, and over, and over. Tiny fists pounding and slamming, “Take that! Take that! You can’t defeat me!”

And it has to be enough.

Exposure therapy for perfectionism and imposter syndrome are nearly the same methods. Basically, we’re going to just have to do the work anyway, lads. So let’s get to it. I GUESS!

Better luck next time,

Hannah