Dear me, you are tidying up your desk for the first time. Your hands are trembling slightly as you stack the files. You re-read every text three times before signing anything. That morning, you chose the most serious outfit in your wardrobe, telling yourself it would compensate for the rest. It won’t compensate for anything. Let yourself believe that for a little longer; it doesn’t hurt anyone.
Mistakes. You will make them. Often, and not just at the beginning. This is not proof that you don’t belong here; it is proof that you are a human being with a workload that is too heavy and nights that are too short. No one sustains a long career without failing at a good portion of it, and those who claim otherwise are lying or have never really worked. You are never told this during training. I am telling you now: error is not the opposite of competence; it is a part of it.
Doubt. You think it’s a sign that you aren’t ready. You also believe this profession will make you brave. It will mostly make you silent, which is not the same thing, and you won’t know right away which of the two you have become. Looking back, I can tell you that doubt will never completely go away, and that it is not a problem to be solved. The magistrates you admire most, those whose confidence in court you envy, probably doubt as much as you do. They have simply learned not to show it on their faces.
Loneliness. For a long time, you will believe it is a personal weakness, that if you were better, you would feel it less. It has nothing to do with your worth. It comes with the job, like the desk and the files, except no one tells you that when they hand you the keys. One evening, a more experienced colleague will see you hesitating for a long time over a file, without saying anything, and let you hesitate a bit longer before dropping: ‘No one is going to tell you what to do in your place.’
You won’t know at the time if it’s a criticism or a gift. You will remain for a moment without an answer, the sentence hanging between you. It is only years later that you will understand she just offered you the most honest thing anyone has said to you since your arrival. You will regret not simply saying thank you, instead of nodding with an offended air.
Time. You think you are starting from scratch. You never start from scratch; you start tired, and no one will tell you that until you learn it on your own. You look at younger colleagues and you are already calculating what you have lost. Stop that calculation. It won’t teach you anything useful, and it will take energy you will need elsewhere—for example, to understand how the office printer works, to tame the copier that jams, and to finally remember the name of the clerk you have been confusing with someone else for three months. I cannot tell you it will become easy. That would be a lie, and you will quickly hate people who lie to reassure you. I can tell you it will become familiar. It is not the same thing, but it is enough, with time, that you no longer really tell the difference between the two.
You will make decisions that you will still doubt years later. You will lose nights you will never recover. You will also endure, longer and more solidly than you imagine at this very moment, standing before your barely tidy desk, in an outfit far too serious for a first day. I wouldn’t change anything about what you are going to experience. Only one thing, perhaps: stop apologizing, in silence, for still being in the process of learning. No one is listening when you apologize in silence. That is exactly the problem.
Captured & Published at: 2026-11-03 06:24:09 (Madagascar Local Time EAT)
Original Source: https://www.lexpress.mg/2026/11/la-plume-delysee-rasoahanta-ce-que-je.html