For many years, in my music practice, the imposter would sneak in through dark cracks of self-knowing, thriving on sabotage of all I had built. She would ask “Who the hell do you think you are?” and serve a platter of comparisons, to those more successful, more talented, more infinitely interesting. I refused to call myself a musician because I didn’t play an instrument but when, on hikoi, without music to play aloud, I began to sing...

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