I’ve always been told to work hard for what I want. What I have never been told, however, is that no matter my endeavor or stage in life, doubt will fester in my core.

My eyes fill with tears as I yet again put the cone of shame on my dog. For the fourth time this week, she has ferociously shaken her head so hard that blood from her ear tips has splattered all over the wall.

She is my first pup - I’ve always wanted a dog but I’m not ready for one until I enter my 40’s. We bring her home from the shelter and name her Bean, after Princess Bean from Disenchantment. And oh the unbearable lightness of Bean; the cone does not slow down this 60 pounds of resolute grit. Can I keep doing this?

Besides her frequent and intense head-shaking, Bean is very reactive. I’m overwhelmed, like I’m trying to save her from drowning and I can’t even swim. Seeing other dog owners and their calm pups without cones is salt in my wound.

I’m tired. Of being patient. Of cleaning up blood. Of all the barking. Of going to the vet. Of being hypervigilant every time I take Bean out of the house.

At the vet’s office I act like I want to do anything Bean needs but the staff doesn’t see that I’m bitter behind the mask. Does a true dog lover only love one when it doesn’t need this much care? Nevertheless, I have committed to care for her in good times and bad - persistence is my only option.

My continued doggie-paddling in these unfamiliar waters pays off. After a few years of vet care we now know that cutaneous vasculitis is why Bean’s ear tips bleed easily. Today my bubba is on an effective medication regimen and has been cone-free for over six months.

As part of the job of being Bean’s caregiver, I continue to have moments of fatigue and frustration. Yet, there is an advantage to the need for hypervigilance: it forces me to get out of my head and pay attention to my surroundings. And if my princess’ ears get injured again, I’ll kiss the little pink heart on her nose, put the cone on her, and remind myself that it is temporary until they heal.


I’m full of dread as the phone rings and a big part of me doesn’t want the person to pick up. Why am I making these calls if I don’t want anyone to answer? What am I afraid of? I’ve been doing this since 2008 and if a call goes badly, it’s not like I have to speak to the person again.

It is October 2024 and I’m volunteering to help cure general election ballots. The other callers on the phone bank seem enthusiastic and much more capable than I. They share positive stories in the Zoom chat or ask specific questions for someone they have on the line, whereas I’ve entered an arena where I have no chance of winning the battle.

My leg shakes and I chew on a hangnail as the auto-dialer continues. There’s another ring and a man in his 70’s answers. “Hello may I speak with Robert please?” I say without breathing.

“This is Robert.”

“Hi, my name is Mona and I’m a volunteer with the voter protection team – this is not a fundraising call. Do you support Kamala Harris for President?”

“Yes,” he says.

Whew! I’m breathing again. “I’m calling to let you know that your ballot has been rejected by the Board of Elections because the signature on it doesn’t match the one on your ID.”

“Oh!” Robert exclaims, “That is because I recently had carpal tunnel surgery so I don’t write like I used to.”

“Well, there is still time to fix this,” I assure him. I give him the phone number and hours of the board of elections office closest to him. He says he will address the issue first thing tomorrow. I’ve helped save a vote.

I share this during the phone bank debrief and others cheer me on. I realize there are likely other callers who feel like I do but I’ve been comparing my inner experience with what I can only see of them.

I stay on the phone bank despite people hanging up or yelling at me. I’ll likely be anxious the next time I volunteer but I’ll enter the arena and put up a good fight knowing it can make a difference.


My stomach drops and a cold sensation flows through me - I am Icarus plummeting to the earth. I’ve failed another practice test and my psychology licensure exam is in one week.

Did I truly earn my doctoral degree if I can’t pass these practice tests? How will I be ready to take this exam in six days? I want to give up, fall to the ground, and stay there.

Am I self-sabotaging? It’s surreal that I can put the letters PhD after my name. On top of that, do I deserve to be a licensed psychologist and see patients without supervision?

I call my sister in tears. She sympathizes because she’s been through such a grueling process herself: passing the California bar exam. “Maybe on some level I don’t feel I deserve this,” I sputter out in between sobs.

“Put your feelings on the shelf and do the work you need to do to pass,” Sheila tells me. Her words blow my mind. This is not the time to wallow in self-doubt. I need to focus on my goal.

Unlike Icarus, I’m not wearing wax wings. I have eight years of psychology schooling under my belt - I have already fallen countless times, pulled myself up, and surmounted the peaks. I need to pull myself back up again and reach for the sky.

Over the next six days I study my weak areas, pass a practice test, then pass the actual exam. I’m now a licensed psychologist.


Failure and self-doubt are bumps along any path. What’s more, imposter syndrome has been good for me. Thoughts like Am I doing enough?? I’m a licensed psychologist? Insane! make me work harder. And Wallow, I see you - just try me.

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