Sometimes you are a Keebler Elf; Sometimes you are a Kaleidoscope.

The first time I put on my chef whites I felt like a Keebler Elf. I unpacked my uniform and pulled up the baggy, houndstooth pants that sat well above my waistline, styled like Fred Mertz in I Love Lucy. I buttoned the starched chef’s jacket and I looked at myself in the mirror, feeling better prepared to trick-or-treat than to bake. The toque (which my alma mater sadly does not require students to wear as a part of the standard uniform anymore) added a heightened sense of absurdity to ensemble. The hat sat too loosely around my head, so it slid down over the tips of my ears. After time passed and the uniform became a second skin, I tightened the toque and the ears came out. But that day, as I took a last look in the mirror and ventured outside for the first time sporting my new look, I felt entirely conspicuous, despite the fact that I was swimming in a sea full of students wearing identical clothing.

I came to live in chef pants and kitchen clogs, and I settled into my new identity as a pastry cook, becoming bolder with my fashion choices. There was this one pair of pants that I relished my boss rolling his eyes at. The pants were printed with giant, bright-yellow lemons and I strutted that fruit down the streets of Boston as though it was Dior. Bandanas became my headwear of choice, and I had one for every season and occasion. There was a bandana that looked like a pirate’s map, poinsettias for the holidays, polka dots when feeling playful, cactuses and spurs for Wild West kind of days, and green camouflage when I meant business.

And then I went to Grad school. I shed my lemon pants and headed to the classroom. Strangely, a familiar unease crept through my body. This time around, I wasn’t a kid playing a pastry chef; I was a pastry chef playing an academic. Just when I had become confident in one role, I shifted to another. Here too, I eventually became more at ease, tightened the proverbial toque and added a new layer to my experiences.

Starting anything new can be scary and requires humility, openness and a sense of humor. On many occasions, overcoming the initial fear of not belonging has allowed me to grow and learn new things about myself. But the sense of being an imposter is sometimes difficult to shake.

The feeling has become particularly palpable as a mother. After becoming fully absorbed in motherhood, there are no lemon pants that you can take off. When I arrive at my desk, motherhood is an aspect of my identity that seeps from my pores, and I worry that someone will smell it (…figuratively of course, because I work from home). It is not a question of capability or success because women are successfully juggling their many hats, bandanas and toques on a continual basis. It’s a quiet sense of not belonging fully to a thing because the different sides of ourselves feel so incongruous.

Down to our physicality, there is a distinct duality for women. I am a mother whose body has performed the functional service of growing and sustaining two children. It’s a powerful thing and the story of motherhood is woven through me, as I have literally been torn and sewn back together. Even within the intimate realm, there are two versions of my body that make a complete story, making the rediscovery of one's own desirability feel like pulling up houndstooth pants for the first time.

But I’ve never regretted pulling up the pants, or taking the risk to pursue new passion. Sometimes I still feel like I’m hiding in a Keebler Elf costume, but there are moments when I see the many versions of myself like a kaleidoscope. If I face the light and rotate slowly, all of the separate pieces come together with endless possibilities of design and color.