Imposter in My Own Life

 How do I navigate life? I don’t know anymore.

Today was the worst day of the month. What triggered it, I can't say for certain. Maybe it was a culmination of things, a slow build-up of unspoken words and unseen wounds. Maybe it was nothing at all.

You are a very bad person.

My wife said this to my face.

It wasn’t the first time I’d heard those words. They’ve been thrown at me before—by the very people I once thought would stand by me. By those I’ve given everything to, sacrificed for, tried endlessly to please. And every time, a part of me wonders: Are they right?

Am I really a bad person?

I try to look at my life rationally. On paper, it should be enough. I have a job that pays well, one I actually enjoy on most days. I have a family—caring, loving, present. I have an adorable daughter who fills my heart with immense love. Objectively, I have everything a person needs to be happy. There are people who would trade places with me in an instant. I know that much.

And yet—this feeling. This emptiness. This quiet but relentless sense that something is missing. Like I exist in a world that wasn’t built for me. Like I am an actor playing a role, waiting for someone to realize I don’t belong here.

I feel like an imposter at my job. No matter how much I achieve, no matter how many problems I solve, there's always this voice whispering: You’re a fraud. You don’t deserve this. They’ll find out soon enough.

I feel like an imposter in my own life.

I have achieved so much in my career, things that should make me proud. But does success mean anything if I can’t even convince myself that I deserve it? If I still feel like a stranger in my own skin?

Maybe the real question isn’t whether I’m a bad person.

Maybe the real question is—why do I feel like I don’t deserve the good in my life?

And I cried for an hour today.

The pain was so intense, so suffocating, that I couldn’t hold it in any longer. Tears came, unbidden and unstoppable, like a flood breaking through a dam. I wasn’t even sure what hurt more—the weight of everything pressing down on me or the unbearable helplessness of not knowing how to fix it.

What am I mourning? I don’t even know.

Maybe it’s the version of me that never had to carry this weight. Maybe it’s the life I could have had if things had been different—if I had been different. Maybe it’s the small, fragile hope that keeps flickering out no matter how many times I try to relight it.

I wanted someone to sit beside me and say, I see you. I hear you. You are not alone. That none of this is my fault.

I called someone. The call went unanswered. I lit a cigarette while waiting for them to call me back. They never did. I dropped a text, a desperate attempt. I lied, saying I needed my stuff back that I had given them a while ago for safekeeping. A reply came after some minutes: I’ll come over.

They came. They asked why it was so urgent. There was some edge in their voice, perhaps irritation at my constant and unchanging behavior. And then they saw me crying.

"What happened?”

I tried to form words but couldn’t at first. Eventually, with a shaky voice, I told them what my wife had said yesterday.

They didn’t say much. No forced reassurance, no empty You’re not a bad person or Don’t think like that. Just silence. But not the cold, indifferent kind—the kind that lets you breathe, that makes space for your pain without trying to fix it.

They just sat there. They listened. And somehow, that was enough.

We parted our ways and after some time I came back home. 

An ache took root in my skull, sharp and unrelenting, as if my body itself was punishing me for letting my emotions spill over. My head throbbed in rhythm with my pulse, and I curled up in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for it to pass.

But the ache wasn’t just physical. It was something deeper—something lodged in my chest, in my bones. A grief that had no name, no clear beginning or end.

Maybe I don’t really want to disappear.

Maybe I just want the pain to stop.

As I lie in bed, my body is exhausted, and my thoughts are a tangled mess.

As I write this, there are tears in my eyes. But at least, for now, the storm has passed.