Last night my phone pinged with someone commenting on my piece in British Vogue. Let me just type that again. I wrote a piece that actually appeared on British Vogue (and they commissioned a second one– squeals in a very unladylike fashion). It’s basically the Holy Grail of magazines and comes with a huge thwack of validation.
As confident as I can sometimes be and sometimes come across, I’ve had a real problem with defining myself as a writer and as an activist. Never feeling like I have crossed the imaginary threshold that deems me worthy enough. I’ve learned that there isn’t a baptismal font that someone will dunk me in to say that I have published enough pieces. To say that my words are important enough or that my activism work is worthy enough.
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