“C’est impossible,” they say.

Those words echo in my head—

every night—

as I lay down to sleep.

Back home,

they call me brave.

Resilient.

But it doesn’t feel like me.

I feel like an imposter.

Like I’m always in a place

never meant for me,

speaking words

that don’t feel like mine.

Detached—

a stranger to my own thoughts.

I run myself into the ground—

still…

I fall short.

I yell.

I show up.

But it’s never enough.

“C’est impossible.”

I want to quit.

To shrink—

to disappear.

My heart clenches

every time I get it wrong.

“C’est impossible.”

And still—

I pick myself up.

But I’m worn thin,

running on fumes.

I’ve come this far—

shouldn’t I be grateful?

I know I didn’t get here

by accident.

“C’est impossible?”

No.

Please—don’t let it be.

I’m quiet,

but not small.

Polite,

but not weak.

They think they know me.

Think I’m privileged.

But they have no idea

what I’ve faced—

what I gave up

to be here.

I want the world.

And I won’t leave

until I hold it

in the palm of my hand.

“C’est possible.”

Even if I’ve given

all I have left.