Imposter syndrome

The human brain is an incredibly cruel and capricious thing, especially to its owner.

Here’s an example: the best things that happen to you are only remembered poorly, with a vague, warm feeling that a nice time was had, although the specifics are hard to grasp. Bad news, as well as uncomfortable or embarrassing moments, are stored in 4K ultra-high definition with 6.1 surround sound.

Total recall

These memories lurk in our minds, ready to be replayed in an instant, so when you’re experiencing a rare moment of confidence about yourself as a person, you can be instantly deflated by the memory of fluffing up asking out Sarah MacEwan in class 2E so badly she never speaks to you again, and her friends giggle as you walk past.

If it’s true your life flashes before your eyes as you die then mine is going to be a near-endless cavalcade of perfectly remembered loud farts in unexpectedly quiet rooms, interspersed with brief fuzzy half-images of roller coasters and holidays.

Inauspicious beginnings

Here’s something I can remember with crystal clarity: my first day as a veterinary surgeon.

I remember the door closing behind me as I entered my consulting room for the first time, nervous and uncomfortable in my consulting top, staring at the list of people to see in the hope it might start to make sense. After all those years of training, only one thought filled my mind: “What am I doing here?”

After getting myself together (as much as possible), I walked out into the waiting room to find my first ever client – a pleasant-looking middle-aged woman with a pleasant-looking border terrier.

When I called the dog’s name (Rory), the woman looked up and, surprisingly, showed no evidence she immediately understood what I felt was written all over my face: that I had bluffed my way into veterinary school, somehow passed those exams by luck, and had no right to be standing there pretending I was actually a vet.

A memorable first encounter

The lady walked into my room and Rory followed, limping slightly on his left fore. During the consult that followed, while Rory patiently endured my ham-fisted clinical exam, I considered and rejected osteosarcoma, fracture, metaphyseal osteopathy, panosteitis, myopathy, and – starting to wonder if my education was slightly skewed towards rarer conditions – blurted out some nonsense about Rory having a muscle sprain.

Again, to my surprise, the owner didn’t laugh or scoff, but agreed this seemed likely and was somehow reassured by my idiocy. A few minutes later Rory and his owner left the room.

It hardly seems like a situation to rival my humiliation in front of Ms MacEwan, but it’s burned into my brain with the same fidelity because of the strong, desperate feeling that I didn’t deserve to be there, I didn’t know what I was doing, and that it wasn’t fair to this poor woman that she was stuck with me instead of a competent veterinary surgeon.

It follows

In all the years that have followed, the feeling has never entirely left. It has followed me into my career as a clinical pathologist, and it’s with me right now as I type these words: what am I doing, dispensing advice and anecdotes? Why should anyone listen to me? This feeling and me are old friends.

As Tina Turner once said: “There’s a name for it. There’s a phrase that fits.”

It turns out this feeling is not unique to me; it affects an awful lot of people – to a greater of lesser degree – and enough people have felt it to give it a name that perfectly encapsulates the feeling: imposter syndrome.

It’s the inescapable feeling you don’t deserve to be in the position you’re in, because you know you aren’t worthy of it. You know you’re just making things up as you go along and you actually have no idea what’s happening.

Bluffing it

Here’s what I’m slowly starting to realise: nearly everyone feels like this, nearly all the time.

Inside, we’re all just kids pretending to be grown up and know about mortgages, and what it means when you have blood in your poo, and how to behave at a party without everyone thinking you’re an idiot; when, in reality, all of these things terrify and mystify us.

I wouldn’t be surprised if Einstein felt it as he accepted his Nobel prize, or Neil Armstrong as he took his small step and giant leap. Maybe, just before JFK told people not to ask what the country could do for them, but what they could do for their country, he stood looking at the crowd and thought: “What the hell are they all looking at me for? I have no idea what I’m doing.”

In the smaller hours of the night, I wonder if the only person who hasn’t experienced this feeling is the current incumbent of the White House.

You’ve got this

Who knows? Not me. I have no idea what I’m talking about. I never have had, and I suspect I never will. But, if you’re a fellow sufferer, here’s some advice. I know you’ll never believe me, not deep down where it counts, because that internal voice is too strong and too seductive, but I’m going to say it anyway.

Your own internal feelings aside, trust me when I tell you that you DO know what you’re doing, you ARE helping and the reason no-one has ever found you out to be an imposter is because you’re NOT an imposter. You deserve to be where you are.

It’s the feeling that’s the imposter, not you – and if you ever find a way to believe that, let me know how.