The Beauty of Not Speaking the Same Language

My adventure in navigating car mechanics in Northern Italy

I recently completed a road trip through Europe. And by road trip I mean driving a rental car from Marseille, France, to Venice, Munich, Amsterdam, Brussels, and Paris, only to return to Marseille, France in two weeks.

This was my first time with a diesel car. The fact that the manual was completely in French was something that I thought I could deal with…

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Summer sun, cicadas, and rogue winds

There’s something magical about rogue winds.

Unlike any other type of air movement, midday summer rogue winds have the ability to make you appreciate a moment, a single moment before your world is picked up, disturbed, and rearranged.

As I floated in my pool this afternoon I realized that I could still feel the remnants of stress that this last year has brought on. While my conscious mind has seemingly moved on, my body still remembers the tension, my joints still hold desperately on to the rigidity of carefully planned schedules.

So I stretched out in the water and let my body float around the circular pool. The sun tickled any skin not covered by water, a nearby cicada called its delight in the heat, and the trickle of pool water made me feel like I was in some far away tropical resort.

I forgot about the pool filter that needs cleaning. I forgot about the nearby vegetable garden that needs weeding. I forgot about the overflowing to-do list in my home office. I forgot about the house improvements that I wanted to do this summer. I forgot about checking social media posts. And for the first time in months, I forgot about trying to force myself onto some mysterious professional path that I kept telling myself will make all of my stress worth it someday. I just floated.

Then, much like the chaos of this past year, a rogue wind blasted through my trees and tore off several leaves and branches. It leapt over the water, bounced on the awning and over the roof. I watched it twist across the road in a flurry of dust and leaves, and then it carried on down the hill towards the river.

Then it was gone and my momentary peace was pulled away with it.

But instead of holding onto the shock it brought, instead of yearning for the peaceful moment that had been disturbed, I simply kicked up my feet and put my head back in the water. The sun warmed my skin and the cicada kicked up his melody once again. And I…I kept floating.

Success, Imposter Syndrome, and Labels

A few weeks ago, a person I hold in high regard told me that I am successful.

I laughed off the remark and went on my merry way.

It wasn’t the first time someone had said this to me. I had heard it many times from my family and friends. But here was someone I professionally admired telling me that I was a success, and I didn’t feel even close to deserving that kind of a remark from a person like that.

My reflex was to tell myself that he was just being a sycophant, but I know that such a tendency is very far from the blunt honesty he is known for.

So why does being called a success bother me so much?

Here’s the thing…I don’t take compliments well. I detest being the centre of attention, and I am always pushing myself to be more, to do more. But I’ve never saw myself as a success. I am still working on my thesis after all, and I do some work as a music journalist (as much as I can and as time allows), but I feel that I am hardly a success.

I’ve always felt like a fraud, an imposter who is just playing at being something. Calling myself a journalist still feels like an awkward sham when I’ve had the pleasure of being taught by people who have incredible careers as mainstream journalists. Calling myself a scholar…well compared to the masters who I study, I feel even more of a phoney.

Self-help mantras would tell me that I’m making my own path, doing what suits me best, and that that’s ok. But no matter how many times I send out the vibes in the universe and repeat to myself that I am a writer, scholar, and journalist, I still feel a far cry from those I admire.

Then there’s the idea that you fake it till you make it, right? Maybe. But then I’m totally dismissing how I feel. I can “fake it” all I want, but at the end of the day I’ll still look in the mirror and tell myself I’m not those things.

It wasn’t till a friend made an off-handed comment that I realized what was going on. Imposter syndrome had seeped its way into my very psyche.

It’s something we all struggle with time to time. As a writer, I first danced with it when I told people what I did for a living. Even though I had been published, I dismissed the fact that I was indeed a success to some measure, attributing my lack of confidence at calling myself a writer because I had only been published in a small time online magazine. That success didn’t feel substantial enough or significant enough. In some corner of my mind, I held onto the belief that I will only be a successful writer when I publish something in a well-known publication that millions read.

But as I began working as a music journalist, I began to see how my writing mattered. True, I don’t have a mass readership, but for the indie musicians who I cover, my words brought some measure of joy. Isn’t that success?

As a scholar, I’ve had a couple academic book reviews published and am almost done my thesis. Still a far cry from the world-renowned scholar lecturing to an overflowing hall of hungry minds, which my imagination conjured up as a measure of scholarly success. But for those who I talk to about my work, who one day it may impact, they are supportive and excited about the work I’m doing. I’ve inspired some people, and isn’t that success?

Maybe I’m just trying to justify to myself who I am based on what I do. Maybe I’m seeking a measure of validation. But really, regardless of the label put on me, it will never change what I do…and that is write. In fact, its only the format I write in that determines the label I fit under.

Still, in my mind I will never be good enough to be called a success by my mentor. I don’t feel deserving of the starry eyes that my close friends give me when I tell them which musicians I’ve chatted with. And when my family brags about all I’ve done in the last couple of years, I shy away and dismiss their praise.

I tell myself I’m being humble.

Maybe I am an imposter…by passing off praise and indicators of success, no matter how tiny, I’m telling myself that I am a nobody, who does nothing, and impacts no one. I’m an imposter of ambivalence, trying to convince myself I’m one thing when I’m actually another.

Now isn’t that a thought?


A wise person once told me that something that is hard is something that is worth doing.

As a writer and an academic I face this every day. Many days it’s hard to write. It’s hard to bring the ideas, the feelings, to the surface, and to let them flow almost mindlessly onto a keyboard. Apprehension, fear, doubt, and lack of confidence in my own abilities often stonewall me into neglecting the art of free writing.

But many times there is a little whisper in the back of my mind that nudges me to put words down. It forces me to draw on it, to learn from it as it replays all of my past successes in writing, and in life in general.

It’s my persistence.

There is something to be said for persistence.

It’s what spurred me through my bachelor of arts at a lightening fast pace, allowing me to complete it almost a year early. Did I mention that I did my entire undergrad through distance education?

It was my persistence that made me break out of my comfort zone during journalism school. Talking to random strangers about themselves is an amazingly hard thing to get used to.

It’s my persistence that has sustained me as I’ve transitioned from the military into civilian life, from one career to the next.

My persistence has been my driving force all my life. It has allowed me to persevere where others may have quite. Sometimes it was without any definable goal other than making it through the next minute, day, week, or year, but it was always there.

Maybe it’s more akin to stubbornness, of my unwillingness to cease moving forward, but on the days when it’s hard to get out of bed, let alone write, persistence is my creed.

So to get back to the idea that a hard task is one worth doing, well then I greet every obstacle, every closed door, every rejection, every failure with the utmost optimism.

Welcome to my blog!

My website is finished and welcome to my new blog. Here I will talk about what projects I’m currently working on, where I’m working, and my general observations about everyday life. 

Check back frequently for new posts. Until then, take care and follow your dreams.

#lifegoals, #newbeginnings