Imposter syndrome.

We’ve all felt it. That rumbling doubt. Sometimes I think I’m a rubbish writer. This morning at breakfast, I’m munching on cereal having a big bout of imposter syndrome and how I might become a better writer. “DADDY!” my four-year-old screams. My train of thought smashed. “Yes?” I ask. He holds out a purple pot of paint. “My purple paint pot has yellow paint on it.”

There’s no time for self-doubt with my kids. And I’m forever grateful there are more important things like paint on paint pots.

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