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.
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