When I first sat down to tell my story, I wasn’t trying to write a book. I was trying to prove to myself that no challenge was insurmountable. On a subconscious level, I also think I wanted to prove that I belonged. That my success was not only earned, but deserved. 

Like so many young black South Africans, I’ve dealt with impostor syndrome all my life. I’d speak on panels and pitch to rooms filled with confidence, only to come home and second-guess every word I said. That’s what impostor syndrome does: it follows you into your biggest moments and tells you you’re not enough. So the book? It started as a quiet rebellion. A way to wrestle with that inner critic and say: “No. My story matters.” But I’ll be honest: writing it was far harder than I imagined. I thought telling my story would be straightforward. I’d lived it, after all. But it turns out reliving your own life on paper is like holding a mirror to parts of yourself you’d rather leave blurry. The toughest part wasn’t the structure or even the editing, it was deciding what to include and what to leave out. How much vulnerability is too much? When does honesty become oversharing?

The blank page became my greatest adversary. I’d sit for hours writing and rewriting the same sentence, convinced that someone smarter, more accomplished or more eloquent should be the one telling this story. Because my publisher approached me to write the book and I didn’t follow the typical process other writers go through to get published, I felt guilty. I kept telling myself that there are too many people out there more deserving of the opportunity and privilege to write a book. That’s impostor syndrome again, poking its head through the keyboard.

Then there were the funny moments — now, anyway. Like the time I spent an entire afternoon trying to craft the perfect opening line, only to realise at midnight I’d unconsciously copied the start of The Lion King intro. Or the time I tried to dictate a chapter during a walk and my phone’s voice-to-text app turned a serious story about financial pressure into an absurd tale about “funding stress caused by pasta expansion”.

Let’s not even get into the moment I realised I’d left out an entire chapter from the second draft, one I’d spent two weekends perfecting. Gone. Nowhere to be found. I still blame iCloud, but the truth is probably poor file naming and a late-night coffee crash. And the shameful mistake of identifying a living aunt as deceased in my family tree.

What got me through? Remembering who this book was for. Yes, it’s my story, but I wrote it for the person out there who’s unsure if their voice matters. Who thinks they need permission to tell their truth. I wanted to show that the act of writing is itself an act of courage. I also wanted to document my heritage. That’s why my book starts with my family tree, which covers six generations. I could have certainly included more family members (particularly on my paternal grandmother’s side) had I not been too “busy” for my (now late) father when he wanted to spend time with me and take me to other relatives who could fill in his blanks. Here is a piece of unsolicited advice — cherish every moment with your parents and ask them thousands of questions about your lineage (and document them).

Back to the book — through all the doubt, the laughter, the lost files and misplaced commas, I found something I didn’t expect. I found pride. Not in perfection, but in showing up, even when I didn’t feel ready. Telling your story forces you to take ownership of it. Once you do that, impostor syndrome doesn’t vanish but it does get quieter. Because you’ve got something real to point to and say: “I built that. That’s mine.” And that, I’ve learnt, is more powerful than doubt will ever be.