She

Remember? The day you came here. Landed in a new place you know nothing about. Meeting strangers. Talking to them. Trying to make acquaintances. Did you feel exhilarated?

She didn’t.

All she felt was anxiety. Loads of it.

Will people like her? What are they thinking about? Are they judging her? Are they interested in talking with her? Or are they bored with the topics she is cautiously picking from the mess of questions that is her brain?

The rapid marathon of her heart, before she approaches someone with sweaty palms, after which the palpitation settles down to an uncomfortable agitation. The fear of talking, making a conversation, but trying to dodge an awkward speed break, when the show’s over and you’re looking at each other’s face, finding a road map back to talking, discerning what to do, and staring gauchely.

She was apprehensive about herself. She is.

Why does she do this? Again, and again. Like an eternal cycle, it never stops. The feeling of inferiority. The under confidence.

Why does she underestimate herself?

She is here ‘cause of her merit, her potential. Then why is she so afraid, so nervous.

A fake garb of confidence easily withered away. Just like that. A snap of fingers.

She shouldn’t be like that.

She is more than that.

She looks at everyone else. Observing. Is it a facade they portray, like her? Or do they really feel the spark of confidence like electricity running in the wires beneath their rubber skin? How can they feel this self-assured?

And why can’t she? When will she start being confident ‘bout herself?

She looks at herself. The mirror reflects her pale face. Her never-racked poise. She gives herself a brief session of self-assurance. Deep breaths. Once. I can do this. Twice. I have it in me. Thrice. There is nothing to be afraid about.

She has to believe in herself. She is more than what she thinks about herself. She should not let anyone crush her beneath their feet. Like a cigarette smoked up. Done and dusted. The butt trampled and left on the sidewalk.

Her confidence doesn’t have to be a facade anymore. It can be more than that. She can be more than that.

She is me,

She is you,

She is us.