I often grapple with that feeling of not being good enough
Fighting the well-known fear that time has passed me by
Despite not yet even having hit my first twenty-five years of life
Like by thirteen, I should have been some prodigy
By fifteen, graduated—from university
Six degrees under my belt, offers littered at my feet
I should have known better, been smarter
Predicted the AI race
Solved world hunger
Cured cancer
Stepped myself out of my little world long enough to get into dancing at the height of the pandemic, recorded, and posted for all to see
I should have maximized my time.
Now, I spend so much of my time thinking
Of all the paralyzing things that have held me back
From becoming this self-proclaimed billionaire at nineteen
I fear this is the chapter of me holding myself back at twenty-four
And I recognize this is me digging that hole again
You are your worst critic
But while that may be true
We must acknowledge that means other people are also critics of you
And their critiques often don’t bring an encouraging view
I wonder, at what age the thought ends
And I fear, again, the answer is, perhaps,
Never
I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to forgive myself
For these crimes I committed
According to societal pressures
But
I guess that’s just what we do
brittany given. 