Do You Ever Feel Like a Fraud?

Do you ever feel like a fraud?

I do — constantly.

The first time I remember it really hitting me, I was doing something small. Something unimpressive, really — signing people in at a poetry event hosted by the Library Committee and the ZSO Youth Committee. One of the committee members started explaining the procedure to me like I didn’t know how to write names on a list. I remember staring at her, feeling this strange heat rise in my chest, and I blurted out,
“I’m not stupid.”

But the fact that I said that at all — so defensively, so suddenly — made something in me pause.
Why did I feel like I had to prove it?

That’s the part no one tells you.
The way self-doubt doesn’t show up with dramatic music.
It creeps in when someone asks you a simple question.
When you think you’ve cleaned the room, but someone mentions a mess.
When you find yourself asking: Was that me? Did I forget? Did I fail in some small, invisible way?

Today at temple, my fellow co-chair told me that the library had been left in disarray. A pair of scissors had gone missing. She said she might check the cameras to see who had been in the room last.

And I just stood there, nodding along, heart slowly sinking — because I remembered last week.

It was the anniversary of the pilgrimage. There was a little girl downstairs cutting paper, making crafts, and the space looked uncomfortable. So I invited her upstairs into the library. It felt like the kind thing to do.

I thought I’d cleaned up after.
But now I’m not so sure.
Did I put the scissors back?
Or did I forget, as I often do?

That’s the part that stings — not being sure. Not being able to trust your own memory. Even when your intentions were good.

I joined the GenZ Committee because I’m proud to be Iranian. I wanted to help shape the future of a country that flows through my blood, even if I’ve only known it through stories, books, and longing. As someone who co-chairs in the Zoroastrian community, I thought I was qualified — or at least equipped.

But I walked into that meeting and was met with beautiful, fluent Farsi. Everyone spoke with such ease, such certainty. And there I was, born and raised in Canada, decoding half the words through context and Googling the rest on ChatGPT. It was humbling. And it hurt.

Because in English, I can express myself freely. I can make people laugh. I can build arguments and take them apart. I can tell stories that make people stop and listen.

But in Farsi… I know it’s not enough.

I cannot say everything I want to say. I cannot fight for Iran in the language she understands. Not yet.

And still — I try.

I’m learning to lean on those who are better than me. Today, my co-chair said to me,
“You need to be more like me.”
And honestly? I’d like nothing more. She takes charge. She knows what she’s doing. She walks into a room and gets things done.
Me? I walk in and immediately wonder if I’m in someone’s way.

But I smiled at her and said,
“There’s only one you.”
And I meant it.
Just like — maybe — there’s only one me.

I know myself, though.

Even if I don’t always know what I’m doing, I am willing to learn.
I am willing to fake it — not to deceive, but to become.

Some people choose not to act unless they’re sure. Unless they’re fluent, experienced, certified.

But me?
I’d rather stumble through it than sit out.
I’d rather look foolish than be absent.
I want to show up — for my faith, for my culture, for my country.
Even if my voice shakes.
Even if I say the wrong word.
Even if I’m not the most qualified person in the room.

Because I don’t want to do nothing.
I want to do something.
Even if I look like a fool doing it.

I write down the things I’m not good at —
just like I write down everything else.
Not to shame myself,
but to remind myself that growth doesn’t come from pretending.
It comes from showing up — messy, imperfect, willing.

I’ll make sure to get those replacement scissors.
And a cooler — the upstairs library is a furnace.

Small things.
But they matter.
And so do I.