On imposter syndrome
Some days I feel like an imposter.
I wake up, enjoy breakfast and coffee with my wife, commute the few steps to my desk, then proceed by some miracle to convince myself and others that I'm a CTO, an aspiring writer, a fully-functioning adult, and basically a productive, valuable member of society. The "real me" cowers behind this facade, afraid to be exposed: for everybody to finally wise up and figure out that I don't really know what I'm doing.
The fact that the "act" has been working for years — our company is still alive and doing better than ever, I continue to write words (and recently even began publishing them again), my wife still loves me — should've alerted me that, maybe, I was looking at this the wrong way.
I would only be an imposter if I were pretending to be something I'm not: a "real writer", a "real CTO". But who do I expect to decide whether I fit the bill? I was the only one shining a spotlight on myself, looking for the tiniest cracks or flaws. My imposter syndrome was merely too much self-consciousness!
In recent years I've had more good days than bad, thanks in large part to focusing on the work to be done instead of myself, and realizing that there's no need for me to pretend to be anybody else. My actions and their results should speak for themselves.
Gradually I learned to be indifferent to myself and my deficiencies; I came to center my attention increasingly upon external objects: the state of the world, various branches of knowledge, individuals for whom I felt affection.
Bertrand Russell, The Conquest of Happiness
I've also been able to gradually let go of the fear that if I don't constantly put myself down, I would grow complacent and stop improving. The exact opposite has in fact proven true: the more I'm able to relax, the more I enjoy what I do, and the better I actually do it.
Some days, I do still feel like an imposter. But most of the time I can now shake off that fake feeling, and attend instead to how I might do what I need and want to do out in the real world — instead of remaining cooped up and afraid inside my own head.
(This essay is part of a month-long series of 30 essays.)