In my third year of university, I was picked to host a talk to upcoming psychology freshmen about the transition from high school to university. In the conference room, I remember standing near the coffee table pretending to be deeply interested in a program booklet.
Everyone around me sounded so confident. Meanwhile, I was a first-generation university student, and convinced someone was about to tap me on the shoulder and say, “Sorry, there’s been a mistake.”
I had the badge. I was asked to be there. I was doing well academically. None of that mattered. Internally, I felt like I’d snuck in.
That feeling has a name many of us recognize: imposter syndrome.
And despite how often it’s associated with corner offices and advanced degrees, it doesn’t discriminate by job title, income, or status. It shows up in classrooms, networking events, new jobs, creative spaces, motherhood, community leadership.
As a first-generation student, I didn’t grow up with a roadmap to academia. I didn’t have family members who could explain how conferences worked or what networking was supposed to feel like. As a black student, I was often scanning rooms, hyper-aware of whether I stood out. Was I speaking "articulately enough"? Was I asking a "smart enough" question? Was I representing more than just myself?
That hyper-awareness turned into self-imposed perfectionismn, and when you tie your belonging to rigid expectations, any small mistake feels like proof that the fraud police were right all along.
I saw this often during my time as a student mentor. Women who downplay their accomplishments. Women who attribute their progress to luck. Women who say, “I just don’t feel as capable as everyone else,” even when the evidence says otherwise.
And often, when we slow down, we uncover context.
Maybe they were the first in their family to pursue this path.
Maybe they’ve navigated subtle (or not-so-subtle) bias.
Maybe they learned early that being exceptional was the safest way to be accepted.
Imposter syndrome doesn’t develop in a vacuum. It’s shaped by our histories, identities, and environments.
What helped me wasn’t pretending the doubt didn’t exist. It was getting curious about it.
In my own reflection, I started asking:
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Whose voice is this?
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What am I afraid will happen if I’m average, human, learning?
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What does “belonging” actually mean to me?
I also began experimenting with imperfection. Saying something in a discussion without rehearsing it ten times in my head. Letting a networking conversation be slightly awkward. Admitting when I didn’t know something.
And... Nothing catastrophic happened.
On International Women’s Day, alongside celebrating achievements and progress, I think there’s space to honor this quieter work too. The work of unlearning the belief that we must be exceptional to deserve space. The work of separating our worth from our performance.
