Imposter Syndrome

Imposter syndrome. 

It’s a real mindf*ck. I’m sure almost everyone can relate, but that knowledge still doesn’t mute the critical voice in my head. Regardless of how hard I work, I’m dogged by the persistant feeling of being a pretender. In the past few years, I earned my Master’s degree in architecture and landed a job in New York City. On paper, the professional boxes are checked. But still, something is missing. 

I’ve always been drawn to anything creative. Drawing, painting, sewing, pottery, illustration, journaling, photography, stop-motion animation, poetry - you name it, I’ve probably done it; for a long time, I thought I would grow up to be an artist. In college, I studied acrylic painting, but I was afraid that if I pursued it professionally, I’d slowly starve to death in my roach-infested studio apartment. Not a great first (and last) impression on the new neighbors.

With comforting conviction I marched down the responsible path, applied to architecture school, and signed away the next 3.5 years of my life. Though it often felt like hell on earth, I learned SO MUCH. It was so rewarding to know that I had built the grit and willpower to keep sticking it out. 

However, as the years tick by and I see more of the corporate world, I find myself daydreaming about the freedom and creative drive that I felt when I was in college - creating and seeing my work displayed on the wall and (sometimes) purchased. There are benefits to being at a structured company with mentorship, community, and a stable salary. But still I wonder: what would a career as a self-employed artist or writer would look like?

This book is just a bunch of letters in a google doc. But as the words multiply, so do the intrusive daydreams; days spent tapping away, unlimited WFH, a second book (?!?!), and generally a huge life pivot. It almost feels embarrassing - who am I to dream this out loud? No master’s in literature, no previous published work, and no agent. The first draft isn’t even finished.

This book and this blog are two PRIME pieces of real estate for imposter syndrome. The imaginary bully excels at criticism - a relentless stream of things I would never, ever say to anyone else. I try to remember that everything my mind says is subjective and prejudiced. Some days it’s more of an uphill battle.

But I don’t want to live by that critical voice telling me to chase a predictable life. So here I am, tapping away. I don’t know what’s next, but I know that this brings me so much joy. And even if it’s only ever for my own eyes, that joy is enough reason to keep typing into the void and tell the bully to stuff it. 

Until next time, 

R