Overcoming Imposter Syndrome

Overcoming Imposter Syndrome

When I first started my Ph.D. program at West Virginia University, I had never heard of imposter syndrome. I was the first in my extended family on both sides to attend a four-year university, let alone graduate school. I suppose I had always felt like I didn’t belong in one way or another, but I was also young enough and determined enough that I didn’t pay much attention to what I might be lacking.

When I entered my Ph.D. program, it was very clear, almost immediately, that what I was lacking was cultural capital. It took me years to develop a vocabulary to describe my situation, but I know now that I did not have the insider knowledge that other students in my graduate program had. I didn’t have the generational familiarity or the sureness of my place in the academy and in the world.

What I did have was a wonderful linguistics professor in the office next door. He helped me develop my vocabulary, and my confidence. He taught me that class wasn’t always related to money, that it was more about status and comfort in certain circles.

I was uncomfortable in my graduate classes at first. It seemed like everyone else knew more than I did. It seemed like everyone else was more comfortable building relationships with the faculty and other students. I was there, but somehow, I didn’t quite belong. My clothes weren’t quite right. I didn’t make the right references.

What I learned was that I had a unique opportunity. My working-class values made me stand out, and not necessarily in a bad way. I worked hard, and I wasn’t afraid to ask questions. Above all, I wasn’t afraid to admit when I didn’t know the answer.

I remember leaving a graduate class one evening and returning to my office, frustrated with another student who had dominated the conversation, who seemed to think he knew everything. I talked with my neighbor the linguist about it, and he had an interesting take. He said humility and the ability to admit when you don’t know, the ability to ask questions, is the mark of real intelligence, real accomplishment. The more you learn, the more you realize how much you don’t know. Those who think they already know everything are stuck in a holding pattern. They can’t progress until they allow themselves to be vulnerable, to be curious again. It seems ridiculously obvious to me now, but I hadn’t really thought of myself in this way before this conversation. Or maybe I just needed to hear it from someone I liked and respected, someone who did belong.

I attended an American Studies Conference at Dartmouth University while I was working on my dissertation. After spending the previous night trying to rest on the floor of the La Guardia airport, I wasn’t in the best mood or mental condition when I arrived for my first seminar. I was exhausted, the kind of exhaustion that borders on delirium. And if I felt out of place in a graduate program at WVU, I certainly didn’t belong in an Ivy League conversation.

A very smart young professor gave a presentation on his current research to our small workshop group, and his thesis was that the children’s book he was studying was essentially amoral. I listened to his presentation, and I couldn’t stop arguing in my head about his basic premise. How could this children’s book be amoral, without moral? Without overt moral message, maybe, but amoral, no. I looked around at the other participants in the room, accomplished scholars from universities all around the world. These people were definitely smarter than me, probably superior in every way imaginable. But didn’t they see the very obvious flaw in his logic?

Maybe it was the sleep deprivation that made me loose and bold, but I spoke up. “How is it amoral?” I asked. “It has a moral, even if that moral is subtly ingrained in the text.” The response from the other participants, including the decorated Dartmouth professor leading the workshop, was immediate and overwhelming. Everyone started speaking at once. They had all been thinking the same thing, but no one had dared to say it out loud!

After some respectful discussion, we were able to give this young professor guidance on how to revise his thesis and his argument to say what he wanted to say without the strange claim of amorality. While criticism is hard to take, it’s necessary, and he was very grateful four our candid feedback. He even approached me after we broke for lunch and thanked me.

During these interactions and many more like them, I learned to take risks and to trust myself. I learned that I have a direct and uncomplicated way of looking at things, and this is true of my writing as well. I also learned that the colleagues I wanted to build relationships with, the colleagues I respected, also respected me for my candor, my straightforwardness, my willingness to ask questions, and my willingness to say the thing everyone else is thinking.

I was scared to speak up in that room at Dartmouth. What if everyone else had understood something that I just couldn’t see? What if my comment was ridiculous? Or even if it wasn’t ridiculous, what if everyone thought it was because it came from me?

I met one of my closest lifelong friends in that room. I still know she’s a million times smarter and more polished than I am, but I also know that there are things about me that she respects in the same way I respect her. It’s what makes us a great team.

Here is my advice for overcoming imposter syndrome:

Everyone feels like an imposter in some way, and everyone is afraid they will be exposed. But we aren’t imposters, and there’s no reason to fear exposure, if we are true to ourselves, lack of cultural capital and all, and admit when we don’t know. That’s it. Humility is the key to overcoming imposter syndrome. Don’t try to be something you’re not. Be authentically you, warts and all.

For me, that means asking the question that seems brutally obvious. It means admitting when I don’t know the answer and listening to the person who does. It means speaking up when I have something to contribute. It means having conversations, being curious, and taking risks. Embarrassment fades much faster than the fear of being found out. And if the people around you are your people, they’ll respect you for who you are and what you have to offer.