I doubt myself all the time.

Thank goodness life tends to happen to us all in spite of ourselves, because otherwise I would spend more time than is dignified in the fetal position, hugging my knees and wondering where I could better hide so as to avoid pain, irritation, and further humiliation.

But my self-doubt –ever-present, unwelcome, and comfy like a hairshirt– keeps me honest, I suppose. And sometimes I can break away from it a little bit.

I can do this.

I can take a picture that speaks (even if it’s just to me), and one that I can go back and look without feeling that pit-of-the-stomach nausea that insincerity can bring about.

I can have moments where things make sense; where the process can be tangible and beautiful; and where, much like with a grand old staircase from long ago, things build upon themselves and my feet feel secure and I can sprint upstairs and simply feel the joy of defying gravity a few inches at a time.

But gravity makes you work for every inch– and how.