What If Feeling Like a Fraud Means It Matters?

I’m thankful for Dr. Stoddard’s work on the subject of 'imposter syndrome' and encourage you to check it out, too. I’ll link her website here!

There’s sometimes this moment in a session when things get real, and I question if I'm sure I know what I’m doing. The moment when one partner in the couple brings up a past affair that still holds a world of hurt, or someone shares that they’re not sure if they can stay in the relationship. Everyone in the session can feel it. “Where do we go from here?” is what we’re all thinking. And the answer? Well, I’m supposed to have it.

Sometimes, this moment hits and I’m able to keep the session going without batting an eye. The couple tunes into one another after we’ve held space for the emotions at play, they’re able to share and reflect with one another, and they feel closer at the end of the session. I feel like a stellar therapist. Other times, however, the air in the room (or the virtual room, as is the norm for my practice these days) gets thick with tension. I’m supposed to know what to do next, but instead my pulse quickens right along with my clients’ and my own mind floods with doubt. Do I really know what to do here? Am I actually the right fit for these clients? Can I help them?

I’m happy to report that in these instances, there’s not ever been a couple who said anything to the effect of, “You clearly don’t know what you’re doing. We’re out of here.” No, couples are focused inward in these moments and likely can’t see the moment that hesitation no doubt flashes across my face and I question my ability, worthiness, and qualification.

In the moment, though, I’m scared of being found out. Usually, it’s just that—a moment. The session moves along, usually in a positive way, and the clients often leave having a greater sense of safety and comfort in their relationship and new skills to try out for the week. After all, it's normal, as a fellow human, to co-experience feelings of doubt and frustration as my clients are going through the throes of these emotions. But it’s the interpretation of those feelings as self-doubt that I’m pondering here. Those thoughts above, those doubts on whether I belong here as a therapist. What do we call those?

You likely already know. Imposter syndrome and its cronies, anxiety, self-doubt, and insecurity are hot topics in mental health and other professional spaces, and they have been for some time now. Though this subject has been talked about on endless podcasts, Instagram posts, and TikToks, though it’s been researched by university teams and pondered by some of our best and brightest, it’s still something that most professionals struggle with. And I mean struggle in the WWE sense of the word. This experience sometimes feels like it’s going to knock us out of the ring, doesn’t it?

I came across Dr. Jill Stoddard’s work on the subject. She actually critiques the label “imposter syndrome,” and I think rightfully so. We so often look at the phenomenon of feeling like an imposter as a negative, bad problem that we need to rise above and overlook the possibility that these feelings may serve a generous purpose. Stoddard proposes that what we often label “imposter syndrome” has likely evolved over time as a protective mechanism to help us stay in-group. This fear that we’ll be “found out”—that we’re not who we say we are, or not as capable as others believe—doesn’t come out of nowhere. It’s rooted in something critical and human: the need to belong, and to function competently within our social world. After all, one of the strongest predictors of a long life is the quality and depth of our relationships.

Here’s the catch: the very fear that grows out of our need for connection often disrupts our ability to connect authentically. If we’re preoccupied with being exposed, we become guarded, performative, or withdrawn. We worry about not being seen as real—and in response, we start to panic. We might flee, or begin to peacock in an effort to combat the feelings of inadequacy. So the thing meant to protect our belonging ends up pulling us away from it. In trying to preserve connection, we lose access to the authenticity that makes connection possible in the first place.

When fear creeps in that you’re not good enough, when you’re afraid of being found out as a fraud even when you’re as qualified as the next guy (maybe even more so), what do you do? I really like Stoddard’s approach here. She draws from Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT) to argue that the goal isn’t eliminating self-doubt, but developing psychological flexibility—the ability to take meaningful action alongside it. So, for example, when the thought comes to me, “I don’t know where to move this session,” and I start to feel like a big faker and I begin to wonder if I’m even in the right career and also my clients probably don’t like me anyway and they probably know that I don’t know what to do right now… see how quickly our thoughts can get away from us?

What if, at that first signpost that I’m struggling with my sense of belonging in my field, in my practice, and in the sacred therapy space that I co-create with my clients, I observed my not-knowing-what-to-do in the context of my experience as a human? Likely, my nervous system is doing what nervous systems do and is reflecting the experience of my clients. This is a good thing—one of the building blocks for empathy. What if, rather than judging myself and my work, I remind myself to be present? I could practice what I preach to my clients and tune into my sensations. My quickening pulse, my tightened chest. I can use this. In fact, I was trained to use this; as a therapist, I’m my greatest tool! (Did I just call myself a tool?)

We keep moving in the session. I’m able to lock into my experience and identify my own anxious feelings, empathize with my clients, and enable them to empathize with one another. We slow down and discover the feelings hidden underneath the inflammatory words that were said. We all lower our level of activation, and we land in a softer place by the end of the session than where we started.

Maybe for you, dear reader, the feeling that you’re an imposter shows up before a presentation at work. There’s no way my team needs to hear this from me—they’ve all been here longer than I have, or, these guys graduated more recently than me and know all the latest approaches. Maybe it shows up as a punch in your gut when your boss asks for a revision on a document you submitted— the thought, “I knew I’d mess this up,” pops in your head—or maybe it keeps you from sharing your ideas at a roundtable.

However it shows up, I encourage you to take a step back next time it does. Look at the experience in your context. What do you notice about the circumstances that brought these feelings on?

I’d wager they showed up in places you care deeply about.

We don’t usually spiral about things that don’t matter to us. You’re probably not lying awake at night wondering if you ordered the wrong dinner. But you might feel that knot in your stomach before giving a presentation, or when someone you love looks to you for guidance, or when a problem at work catches you off guard. In other words, these moments don’t point to your inadequacy—they point to your heart.

Because if this experience tends to show up in areas where you have a level of competence, responsibility, or meaning, then maybe it’s not evidence that you don’t belong. Maybe it’s evidence that you do—and that you care about doing it well. Jill Stoddard speaks to this idea in her work—that these feelings tend to show up in areas that matter to us.

What if, instead of reading that surge of anxiety as “I’m not cut out for this,” you experimented with a different interpretation?

This matters to me. I want to do this well. Of course this feels big.

That doesn’t make the feeling go away, but it softens the fight against it.

And from there, the question shifts from “How do I get rid of this feeling?” to “What do I want to do, even with this feeling?”

In my experience—both personally and professionally—and in line with the ACT-based perspective that Stoddard draws from, that action-mindset is where the feelings and circumstances can start to move.

Back in those moments in session, when I feel that familiar flicker of doubt, nothing magical happens. I don’t suddenly become 100% confident. I don’t eliminate the thought entirely.

But I can feel my feet on the ground, my breath in my chest, the presence of the people sitting across from me. I can remember that I don’t actually need to have the perfect next move—I just need to stay with them. When I do that, more often than not, something meaningful unfolds. Not because I eradicated self-doubt, but because I didn’t let it pull me away from what mattered most in that moment:

Connection.

Where does the feeling that you don’t belong keep you from connecting? When you’re stumped, what is the story you tell yourself?

When we can ask ourselves these questions and answer them from a grounded and mindful place, we are able to get closer to the truth. Usually, the truth is, we’re still learning and honing our craft. We don’t know everything there is to know about work, family, and all the other crazy and wonderful parts of our lives. We can’t predict where every interaction and challenge will take us, how others will respond, or whether our first solution will work. So, yeah. You’re not an imposter, and no one is sitting on the edge of their seat waiting for the most humiliating moment to call you on your crap. You’re human. I’m human. It’s okay.