5 Steps to Stop Impostor Syndrome in Its Tracks

Social scientists David Dunning and Justin Kruger wanted to know whether people who are incompetent know that they’re incompetent.

Spoiler alert: they don’t. In the researchers’ paper “Unskilled and Unaware of It,” they write, “Although their test scores put them in the 12th percentile, they estimated themselves to be in the 62nd.”

That’s right. Dunning-Kruger Effect shows that people who know more about a given subject think they know less about it and people who are totally ignorant of a given subject are overconfident.

We see it in the office, in the news, in overambitious home repairs. The people who know the least about a given topic tend to overestimate themselves in that realm.

But the inverse is also true: The people who know the most tend to underestimate themselves.

Taken to its extreme, veni vidi vici!, it’s impostor syndrome, the feeling you’re a fraud at something you actually excel at and, at any minute, you’ll be found out.

The sick irony? If you were, in fact, incapable or ignorant, an impostor, you probably wouldn’t have the sense to question your ability.

While many of us have wrestle with it, some of us are more susceptible. According to the New York Times, “women tend to judge their performance as worse than they objectively are while men judge their own as better.” Also according to the Times, impostor syndrome’s effects on people who are minorities is compounded because of pressures of discrimination. (It turns out, people treating you like you’re incompetent despite your competence makes you feel like you’re incompetent.)

And for those of us who make art, often ephemeral, often in isolation or without recognition or pay, these intrusive thoughts can be especially hard to beat back once they enter.

If you’ve felt the pains of impostor syndrome, you’re in good company. Even former First Lady Michelle Obama recently shared that she struggles with this feeling.

“I had to work to overcome that question that I always asked myself, ‘Am I good enough?’ … That’s a question that has dogged me for a good part of my life,” she said.

She felt that way stepping into the Ivy League. She felt that way again when she was becoming the First Lady of the United States.

Unchecked, impostor syndrome keeps us from sharing our most meaningful contributions with the world. Instead, we keep them in notebooks, on hard drives, in basements. When we let impostor syndrome lead instead of our gifts, we undervalue our work, we fake smile our way through parties, we bloviate or self-deprecate and often isolate ourselves. We’re never known and the world misses out.

Thankfully, Michelle Obama harnesses the courage to acknowledge her impostor syndrome without letting it run her life.

So how do we trust in our worthiness and make our mark?

Here are five steps to stop impostor syndrome in its tracks:

Step 1. Recognize it for what it is.

But it can be tricky to identify: Impostor syndrome may look like humility outwardly. But it’s actually a rejection of the gifts and talents you possess.

Humility is a virtue, and arrogance a vice. So, are you being humble or not giving yourself enough credit?

C.S. Lewis said, “Humility is not thinking less of yourself, it’s thinking of yourself less.”

Do you hear your inner voice asking the question Michelle Obama asked: “Am I good enough?” Do you fear “getting caught” or “being found out”? Is there an anxious feeling attached? Is there an inward, negative focus?

If so, it’s likely impostor syndrome.

Or are you considering what you could give others with your knowledge, talents, or gifts? If you have an outward, positive focus, it’s likelier to be humility.

Once recognized, some of its power is diminished.

Step 2. Name it.

As shame and vulnerability researcher Brene Brown says, “Shame thrives in secret.” Tell a trusted friend or mentor what you’re experiencing. Often, in telling the story, you’ll see that the parts that made so much sense in your head don’t make sense out loud. In the telling, you might find the the feeling evaporating.

If not, it’s likely that who you tell will see your value and have an anecdote to share about a time they’ve felt like a phony. In sharing our experience, Brown says someone else can empathize with us and we realize we aren’t alone.

Why is naming so powerful? Brown says, “If you own this story, you get to write the ending.”

Step 3. Find the right people.

And, Brown emphasizes, it’s important who you choose to tell. You want honesty and compassionate support. In a “shame spiral,” you won’t trust the friend who you know offers effusive praise, and you don’t need the friend who you feel competitive toward or who might scold you.

As an aforementioned NYT article mentions, it may help to find a group based on an identity within your field (race, gender, sexual orientation, region, and so on). They’ll likely have commonalities, won’t require as much explanation from you, and can offer tips as to what’s worked for them in similar situations.

Bonus: being part of a group that identifies as a part of a profession gives you a little sense of verification. (For instance, I joined an online women’s writing group. Connecting with other writers helps me feel like a writer.) Find the person or community that you trust.

Step 4. Honor your integrity and do the dang thing.

Michelle Obama said she fought her impostor syndrome the way she knew how: hard work.

Worried you can’t make this presentation, do well in this promotion, parent your child well, make a painting as good as the last?

Then it’s time to begin.

Obama said: “Whenever I doubted myself, I thought, let me put my head down and do the work. I would let my work speak for itself.”

One way to prove to yourself you can do something is to do it.

Emmy winner Amy Poehler also takes this approach. In writing her best-selling memoir Yes, Please she admits she too has heard the voice that says “youaredumbandyouwillneverfinishandnoonecaresanditistimeyoustop.”

How did she combat it? She sat down and did it. Poehler says, “The doing is the thing. The talking and worrying and thinking is not the thing.”

Step 5. Celebrate your gifts.

Impostor syndrome seems akin to what Brown calls “foreboding joy,” the sense that any time something good happens, you’re waiting for the other waiting for the other shoe to drop. The antidote, she says, is gratitude.

You can’t experience joy or accept your gifts without it.

A friend reminded me recently that the data shows we just have to express gratitude, even if we don’t feel it yet. (Thanks, Jeanette!)

Write a list you’re grateful for in your planner or make a “successes” label in your email or file on your computer. When you feel impostor syndrome creeping in, read your success file. You’ll thank yourself. (Har har.)


Impostor syndrome may be a constant companion. The trick is to recognize it, confide in a friend, do your work, and celebrate your successes.

Still wondering if you’re good enough?

That needn’t stop you.

As Poehler says, “Great people do things before they’re ready. They do things before they know they can do it.”

(FWIW, I struggled mightily with impostor syndrome before pressing publish on this very post and have before, too.)


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The Artistry of Julia Child: Late Starts and By Nows

“Oh, La Vie! I love it more every day.”
—Julia Child

childhed
Julia Child wielding a knife| from PBS (via Mental Floss)

If, like me, you sometimes (panic) Google “what age was [insert idol here] when they [insert formative experience or creation of work of genius here],” maybe you too have felt under the gun. That gun being one that exploded for a race right above you minutes ago, and people are making the third turn for that first lap, and you’re still trying to get your feet set right on the blocks. (And aren’t these blocks a little awkward? Are my feet too big or narrow or inflexible for these blocks? Whose idea was it to have runners use blocks anyway? Aren’t we beyond this, technologically?)

Shouldn’t I be in the town I’m meant to be in and settle down in and love and invest in by now? Shouldn’t my career make more sense to me by now? If I haven’t created a work of genius by now, does that mean my art ain’t worth shit? Shouldn’t my kid exist by now? Shouldn’t my marriage go more swimmingly? Shouldn’t I be married? If this person began playing an instrument when they were seven, why should I pick it up at 31? Ah, the “by nows.” I know them well. I can recite them by heart and improvise on their melody to add some spice to each of its dishes.

Hadn’t Wendell Berry always known he wanted to live in Kentucky? (No.) Hadn’t Johnny Cash known he’d wanted to be a musical icon since the death of his brother, Jack? (Not really. He didn’t even learn to play guitar until he was an adult.) Hadn’t Patti Smith been cultivating her eccentricity and black coffee and toast diet since birth? (I mean, maybe.)

Hadn’t everyone I look up to as an artist, just, well, kinda known? Or hit on something when they were younger? Or had more confidence in themselves or faith it would pan out?

So imagine, in the midst of an interstate move, pregnant, having to rehash my career plans to meet my spouse’s, landing on a cheery biography that makes the “by nows” seem bygone. Even the idols have them. No thoughtful person or interesting path comes without worries and regrets.

In that beautiful way libraries work, where something you’d never thought of reading is right against some sort of reading assignment you’ve given yourself, I found a biography I needed to read.

Might I introduce you to the slim Julia Child by Laura Shapiro?

Howdy do!

This is the first of a series I’ll call “The Artistry of Julia Child,” in which I share some of my favorite wisdom from Julia Child (care of Laura Shapiro), and how it might apply to creative life.

“‘I got an awfully late start,’ Julia reflected once. She wasn’t talking about marrying at 34, or beginning her life’s work at 37, or launching a television career at 50. The start she had in mind was the moment when her childhood finally ended and she could feel herself coming into focus as the person she wanted to be.” (Shapiro)

I felt so relieved reading this.

A friend and I recently discussed this unending thread on Twitter of middle-aged people sharing their hope and despair, the feeling that, in one’s thirties and forties, life seems like it’s really winnowing (for better or worse) for the first time*, and the decisions we make (or avoid making) really start to shape things. Reading them was case study after case study in resilience, people’s willingness and need to start over: people leaving or entering marriages, relationships, singledom; having or trying to have or not sure about having or not being able to have children; people starting over on careers, looking up from careers that they find are not what they seemed and not seeing anyone, people finding their right livelihoods; and so on.

Weeks later, I thought of Julia Child.

Or, as Child puts it:

“Cooking is one failure after another, and that’s how you finally learn. You’ve got to have what the French call ‘je m’enfoutisme, or ‘I don’t care what happens—the sky can fall and omelets can go all over the stove, I’m going to learn.’”

So with life.

This zeal for learning was essential to Child’s life, and I’d argue, to just about any creative person’s life (though many dress it up or down with some curmudgeonliness). It’s this spirit of learning that connects all of us, no matter our media, and so I thought it might be nice to share some of the nuances about how Child set about learning. Age didn’t factor in, which isn’t to say Child didn’t have her doubts.

“I am deeply depressed, gnawed by doubts, and feel that all our work may just lay a big rotten egg,” Child wrote after some of the recipes that would become part of her seminal work Mastering the Art of French Cooking were rejected by multiple American magazines. The book itself was sent back for an overhaul (basically a rejection); after tons of work, Child turned in an 800-page manuscript that only covered meats and sauces, with more volumes to follow.

Hell’s bells. I guess Child didn’t know by a certain age either.

Everyone has doubts (even deep doubts) about her creative work, even (especially?) years in and post-rejection. Continue to work anyway.

In Child’s case, the rejections led her to reconsider her audience—she had promised a book for housewives, who, at the time, were trying to limit cook times with frozen meals. But, really, harried housewives (in the marketing sense of that identity) weren’t her audience. How would she convince someone with barely enough time to thaw a freezer casserole to master a different country’s cuisine? Her audience, she decided, somewhat boldly—as this wasn’t a proven market, was cooks who liked to cook, regardless of occupation or gender.

Yet even the hobby cook, the enthusiast, likely would not want a Bible-length tome on two kinds of food with the promise of more Bible-length tomes to follow. (Even God must’ve had an editor.)

Thus began her revision, and in her revising, she became clearer on what was essential and what superfluous.

The book, of course, would go on to be one of the most transformational cookbooks (and really, philosophies of cooking) of the 20th century. But I like to imagine that even if her book had gone belly up, she’d still be the kind of person who enjoys life, because that, in my mind, is real success. And that kind of success is available to most of us.

I just tacked a note above my desk: Je m’enfoutisme! I don’t care what happens. I’m going to learn.

Who’s your favorite latebloomer? What’s their story? Share in the comments below. I’d love to learn from them.

Next month, I’ll share some wisdom from Child, poet William Stafford, and writer Anne Lamott.

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*Yes, this reminds me of that bit in The Bell Jar where a young 20-something laments about all the fruits on her fig tree and not knowing which to pick. So it’s a feeling that probably has less to do with age, except, for women, the pressure of whether to have children, than with personality and culture and circumstance, etc. Feelings feel real and acute whether they represent reality or its opposite. A story of family lore: Me, coming home dejected from kindergarten? second grade? sobbing. “Do you think I’ll ever get married?”

What Success Is (and What It Isn’t)

Poet Lindsey Alexander reading from Rodeo in Reverse at Union Ave Books in Knoxville the day Dr. Christine Blasey-Ford spoke before the Senate Judiciary Committee.
Me reading at Union Ave Books in Knoxville the day Dr. Christine Blasey-Ford spoke before the Senate Judiciary Committee.

I have friends who would say success is getting your first book published, preferably with a prize. Have a prize? A more prestigious prize. Have a prestigious prize? A more prestigious award. You can see how the bar moves.

To me, success is a bar that is level, clearing that bar. A bar I choose. Success to me is about setting one bar at a time, not sitting surrounded by bars.

My success is not a cage; my success is what I leap toward. The past couple weeks on my book tour, success has looked like:

  • Talking to a student about her career path after a class
  • Having someone ask to see a copy of a new poem I’d written after reading it
  • Answering some questions honestly and pithily after a reading
  • Watching Dr. Christine Blasey-Ford testify and then making it to a reading anyway
  • Having a woman at that reading tell me I’d read her favorite poem
  • Connecting with my friends
  • With my family’s help, creating a livable space in my basement (it was just junk in boxes)
  • Scheduling an oil change
  • Not picking fights with my husband
  • Making a good meal from ingredients we already had in the house
  • Making my pub day a day to bake and spend time with a friend, rather than trawl social media or plan a big party that would stress me out
  • When I completely spaced an appointment, apologizing and letting it go

My favorite quote about success is from Maya Angelou. I’ve shared it before, and I’ll share it again: “Success is liking who you are, liking what you do, and liking how you do it.”

Yes, sometimes success is champagne floats. (I do recommend raspberry sorbet for that, by the way.) It’s effervescent and bubbling to the top, it’s beautiful and too sacred for Instagram. It’s holding a book in your hands, or a manuscript, or thirty drawings when you thought you couldn’t finish anything. It’s a scale progression you’ve finally nailed or transitioning between chords with ease for the first time. It’s a promotion, it’s talking to someone you don’t know at a party, it’s seeing your person succeed, it’s having dinner with your parents and realizing just then how much you love them and how much you are loved. It’s stopping to watch the butterflies on the bush you planted for them a year ago. It’s a slow dance in your dining room on a Saturday afternoon—just you.

We tend to write off our everyday successes (or I do), which makes us ill-equipped to see our big ones when they come. I’m trying to revel more in them. Especially the successes that might not look like success at all to someone else.

Sometimes success isn’t glamorous—and I don’t quite mean the hard work behind a finished product. I mean sometimes the world is ugly and success is ugly, too. Sometimes success is sharing with someone you love that you’ve been hurt. Sometimes success is warning women colleagues about your harasser when you hear he’s in their orbit. Sometimes success is having developed the tools to not have a panic attack when you hear an abuser’s name in passing. Sometimes success is faceplanting on the couch so that you don’t go out and self-destruct or self-medicate. Sometimes success is admitting to yourself that you’ve been hurt and that you didn’t deserve to be hurt; it’s letting yourself cry after years of promising yourself you wouldn’t. Sometimes it’s recognizing hurt you’ve caused and contemplating how to pay restitution. It’s laughing after all this when you accidentally break a keepsake, sweeping it up, and hoping you’ll glue it back together somehow. Sometimes success is “jumping in front of a train that was heading to where it was heading anyway.”*

In the American literary scene, we are in a season of awards and lists that people like to argue over. I understand why: They help careers, give visibility to writers, can give assurance that’s much needed when an artist feels at a breaking point, and also, most people have very little taste if left to their own devices—if something wins an award, they can feel comfortable calling it good. I’m happy for kind artists who win awards pretty much regardless of whether I like their writing—mostly because it’s nice when nice things happen to nice people. (And the inverse of this is also true for me—not liking when mean or cruel people or known abusers win these awards pretty much regardless of whether I like their writing.) Sometimes great works are awarded, sometimes they are passed over for lesser ones. An award doesn’t change the original quality of a work. And somehow, work keeps getting done with or without this validation.

If we come up with our own terms for success, as Dr. Angelou suggests, then it is maybe less surprising when worldly success is bestowed to those who are undeserving—the sycophants, the posers, and infinitely worse, our abusers, our nightmares, our Brett Kavanaughs—and that we must argue over who “success” is bestowed upon, whether it’s an award or an inevitability—an entitlement, and what success means. Often, success is just a word for putting bars around others, passing a bar, a baton, between only a few people. (The bars others set for us—by design or by circumstance—usually aren’t level.)

It can be painful to realize people I care about don’t share my definition of success—that a violent felony is a rite of passage, for instance, and not disqualifying, the strange idea that a personal failing should not affect a professional success. (Especially as I’m of the first Facebook generation, where we were urged not to post anything—even a questionable joke or a red Solo cup—as teenagers that might haunt us throughout our careers.)

Having a definition of success for myself doesn’t make the world more just—it doesn’t lessen my tears. It doesn’t make me a good person. (Dang it!) But it does lighten my load. It makes me accountable to myself.

How?

I like who I am, I like what I do, and I like how I do it. (And when I realize I’ve fallen short, I change what I’m doing and how I’m doing it to match the person I know I am.)

I may be wrong, but I do not think the Kavanaughs like who they are, what they do, and how they do it. (If they did, would they deny who they are, what they do, and how they do it? Do they even begin to know who they are?) This belief, this self-love, may be the only justice we get.

*What Dr. Blasey-Ford said of her reluctance to come forward sooner.