That we are the captains of our professional destinies is a lie Western capitalism tells us to prevent the poor from burning the entire system to the ground. You are not the captain of your destiny. It’s possible you’re the rare person who took over your destiny through a thrilling yet bloody mutiny. But successful mutinies are one in a million, and most of us are more like our destiny’s hard-working deckhand. At best, we’re maybe co-captain; at worst, the stowaway who’s tagged along with the cargo.
Which brings us, of course, to imposter syndrome—that illness of the contemporary working world. Imposter syndrome is the creeping suspicion of successful people that they perhaps do not deserve their success, that they didn’t achieve it from their own talent and grit but from a fluke of fate, and that at any moment they’ll be revealed as the phonies they are. As such, imposter syndrome is inherently the disease of a culture which believes that we achieve professional success because we study hard, work hard, shmooze hard, and generally earn it based on our own merit. 1
These days, we seem to be in something of an imposter syndrome pandemic, with endless articles detailing its symptoms, likely demographics, treatment, prognosis, and epidemiological outlook (I myself am guilty). If that’s not enough, the newest trend in the world of online imposter syndrome think-pieces is to embrace imposter syndrome as a sign that you’re challenging yourself, working hard, and making change. A little imposter syndrome is a good thing, these authors argue; even Bill Nye agrees it helps keep us on our toes.
But might it be that our collective obsession with imposter syndrome points to a different malaise than chronic under-confidence? What if, rather than a sign that North American culture breeds insecure people who need to own our success (which seems extraordinarily unlikely), this cultural moment’s obsession with imposter syndrome is something else entirely: the beginning of a creeping—even, shall I say, dawning?—revelation that our individualistic work culture is a big lie.
I agree with Bill Nye that imposter syndrome is good for us. I disagree with the reason. Imposter syndrome isn’t healthy because it pushes us to up our work ethic or to rise to the professional challenge. It’s healthy because this suspicion we have, that our success is not primarily due to our own brilliance and hard work, is true.
Realizing that most of us are, in some way, imposters can actually be the first step to making our workplaces a lot more equal, and to taking a more realistic and compassionate approach to life
That’s right, I said it. If you’re suffering from imposter syndrome, the reason could be much simpler than you think: you could just be an imposter.
Let me explain. In a culture obsessed with individualism, we overly-attribute success to personal hard work and innate individual brilliance. Yet if we paid any attention whatsoever to the things sociologists have been telling us for ages, we would admit that our life outcomes aren’t pure measures of our individual worth—they’re highly influenced by factors beyond our control, like race, gender, socioeconomic status, disability, our parents’ education levels, and more. 2
This isn’t to say that social mobility is impossible and we shouldn’t aspire to it. There do exist people who—through sheer grit, talent, and good luck—work their way up from humble backgrounds to success. And of course, hard work, talent, and dedication do mean something. They’re just not the whole story, not even most of it. Encouraging people to attribute our career outcomes solely to our own talent and ability both inflates the egos of those who were born on third and think they hit a triple and reinforces the idea that if someone doesn’t succeed, it’s their own damn fault.
While contemplating the rigidity of fate may inspire you to abandon all hope and curl in front of your laptop to watch Seinfeld until you perish in a Cheetos haze, the idea that our lives are shaped by systemic factors shouldn’t fill you with nihilism. Instead, it should motivate you to level the playing field, to not take your failures too personally, and to not gloat too much about your success. It should also shut up every obnoxious, wealthy white frat boy whose daddy is paying his tuition, but who rants about affirmative action when he’s drunk.
Realizing that most of us are, in some way, imposters can actually be the first step to making our workplaces a lot more equal, and to taking a more realistic and—dare I say it!—compassionate approach to life.
Let’s unpack what I mean when I say you are probably an imposter.
Quiz time (answer honestly, now): Is your mother literate? Lucky you. Do your parents have college degrees? Then you’re more likely to have a college degree as well. Are you white? Then you get on average 35% more job callbacks than equally-qualified black candidates. Are you a man? Congrats on your 20% bonus for simply existing!
Now, I’m not saying that if you’re a straight white dude from a rich family you haven’t worked hard to get where you are. Maybe you have, or maybe you haven’t. But either way, you’ve been given one hell of a leg up by a history of injustice. So if you sometimes feel like an imposter—that is, if you sometimes have the sneaking suspicion that you didn’t entirely get to where you are on your own steam—congratulations for showing some stunning self-awareness, because yeah, that’s true.
Once you’ve had this self-realization, you’ll likely have some others. (The White House was built by slave labour; a child probably stitched your jeans; the actual You’re So Vain lyric is “clouds in my coffee.”) That’s normal. Don’t wallow. Instead, use this newfound realization to do something useful with yourself. If you’re in the position to hire people, hire women. Hire people of colour. Hire trans people. Hire immigrants. Hire people who actually pulled themselves up by their bootstraps.
And remember, these aren’t “sympathy hires.” There are so many damn talented people who simply never get the chance they deserve because other people began the race halfway to the finish line. While you’re at it, serve on your organization’s diversity committee and actually educate yourself in order to take the burden off of the already overworked, underpaid women and people of colour around you. Or better yet: give those overworked, underpaid women and people of colour nice, fat raises to cover all the diversity work they’re likely doing for free.
The irony, of course, is that marginalized people who have achieved success are oftentimes the most likely to do diversity work, to support and mentor other marginalized people, and—oh yeah—to do this all for free. Our working (and social) lives would probably be a whole lot better if we took up this communitarian ethos and focused less on how individually brilliant and fantastic we are, and more on the support we give and get on the way.
This brings me to the one piece of conventional imposter syndrome advice I actively dig, which is that if you’re a woman, person of color, or person from a low-income background who has achieved professional success, own that shit, and don’t let the good old boys make you feel like you don’t deserve to be there. They are, after all, benefiting from the longest-running affirmative action program of all time: centuries of Western capitalism, racism, and patriarchy.
So yes, you are probably an imposter. That’s not a bad thing. Realizing you are an imposter—that we are all imposters, in fact, because American meritocracy is a brazen lie—is healthy, wholesome, and a great part of a balanced breakfast.
Instead of viewing your imposter syndrome as an ailment, view it as a debt you owe to the universe. And remember, if you’re from a historically dominant group, you are where you are because of a little grit, a little talent, but also a lot of meaningless, random luck. You may be awesome, but other people are awesome too, and since fate dictated that you’re the one sitting on a gold mine, it’s time to spread the wealth.
