Labels are for tins, not people

It was a sunny, slightly breezy day when I asked my parents if we could sit at the front of the restaurant with an open view of the sea. I deliberately picked the chair in the direct path of the warm strip of midday sun, fully knowing I’d spend the next hour squinting and feeling sweat beads rolling down my neck, but I’d made my decision. I needed this.

For the past few months I felt stuck in a rut. I’d been particularly struggling with imposter syndrome. You might recognise the feeling: the voice in your head grows a bit louder and better at convincing you you’re a fraud, one mistake away from everyone else finding out. So, like the villain in a Scooby-Doo episode, you live anxiously awaiting that moment the heroes pull the mask from your face to reveal your true identity. But now on holiday in my native Portugal, away from the pressures of work and the never-ending admin juggle that is adult life, I had finally found (some might say, literal) clarity.