The sun dipped lower in the sky, and the world breathed a collective sigh of relief that the earlier rain had relented. I peered out the window of my rented room on New Town’s Scotland Street, waiting for the coffee that would keep me up all night to finish percolating. I tore a scrap of paper out of the notebook that had flown across an ocean with me. On it, I scribbled in ballpoint: I release my imposter syndrome. It has never served me, and it will serve me no more.
Read MoreSometimes, I pull The Hermit in the morning, before I fill my water bottle, pack my lunch, pull on my shoes, and leave for the day. In those moments, I feel puzzled. I question the pull, annoyed that my deck would be so cheeky as to offer me a vision of stillness amidst the revolving plates of my to-do list, with family in town, a holiday trip to pack for, and oh yeah, that historical novel I’m supposed to be writing in my free time.
“I take a look around my inner-scape and all I see is decimation,” I tell my therapist. Think: abandoned brutalist architecture, dystopian film, Chernobyl. For over a year, I could not harbor any life or laughter within myself. But last you left me, I had championed through, taken some lessons from the Death card, and leapt into my Fool era — which, let me tell you, has been a fantastic time.
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