Fraud
The more I write, the more I feel like a fraud.
What I write is true.
True about who I want to be.
True about how I process things.
True about how I have chosen, in the moment of writing, to deal with life.
And then I shut the top of my laptop down.
And that person on the page is not always the person I show up as in the real world.
My thoughts are often the opposite of what I write about.
My actions, I am ashamed to say, can be too.
I write about treating each human as a human—even the one in the car in front of you.
And yet most days I yell at at least one person on the road.
I write about valuing human life, yet I read almost exclusively books about murder, watch Dateline weekly, and want to see every new crime documentary that comes out.
I write about showing up for people, but I miss the mark all the time.
I write about giving back, but most evenings you are much more likely to find me binge-watching television than volunteering or making food for the unhoused.
I write about not giving up on friends, and yet I know there are people who, if they ever read that post, would feel like I am the biggest liar alive—because I gave up on them.
I write about my relationship with God—the good, the bad, and the ugly—but the truth is most days I move through my life with very little thought about Him beyond listening to worship music.
I write about grace, and there are many times I do not give it.
I write about loving my friends, and yet I have sat and gossiped about them. Like recently.
I write about believing people can change and then never give them the opportunity to do so.
What I want to be and who I am are often at war with one another.
And neither is false.
When I sit at this computer and begin to type, my words are true.
I can sit here, with limited distractions, and process. Think. Reflect. Mean what I say.
But insert life.
Insert humans.
Insert annoyances and hunger and impatience.
And you will see a different side of me.
One I do not write about.
Because who I hope to be—who I sometimes am—does not always align with my thoughts or my actions.
That doesn’t make me a fraud.
Even though it feels like it.
It makes me human.
Flawed.
A walking contradiction.
Imperfect.
With work to do.
And maybe seeing it is the first step.
My therapist tells me I am very self-aware. Maybe I am. I don’t feel like I am, but let’s assume for argument’s sake that she’s right.
I know my flaws.
I know where I fall short.
I can feel the hypocrisy leaking out when it does.
I know why I do most of what I do.
And I know why I don’t do the things I should.
And yet…
Knowing and changing are two very different things.
I know.
And I stay unchanged.
Or do I?
Maybe this writing—this processing I do here—feels like fraud sometimes, but maybe it is actually opening my eyes.
Maybe it is changing me, ever so slowly.
Maybe one day I won’t just write about loving people.
Maybe I will actually love them better.
Maybe I will stop yelling at people on the road.
Stop avoiding eye contact with strangers.
Stop craving the next crime documentary.
Maybe saying something enough begins to shape who you become.
Maybe writing about the person I want to be is the first step toward becoming her.
But I suspect I will always feel a little like a fraud when I sit down to write here.
And that isn’t false humility.
That’s honesty.
Because I will never feel qualified to tell anyone how to live their life—or even how I live mine.
I’m not here because I have it figured out.
I’m here because I’m still figuring it out.
This space isn’t where I come to preach.
It’s where I come to dream a little.
To imagine a version of life—and of myself—that might still be possible.
And maybe you recognize some of yourself in that.
Or maybe you don’t.
Either way…
that’s okay too.
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