Imposter Syndrome and Academic Writing

I’ve always been a bit sceptical about the frequent invocation of imposter syndrome. I recently heard someone say that all academics have imposter syndrome, and that claim confirmed why I am hesitant about the designation. If everyone suffers from a particular syndrome, it starts to seem less like a syndrome and more like the human condition. Or, in this case, the academic condition. But before I explore my objections, let’s consider what imposter syndrome is.

Imposter syndrome is the feeling that we aren’t qualified or entitled or competent but that we have somehow managed to fool people into thinking that we are. It is often described as a failure to internalize success. (If you want more information, here is a webpage with an extensive bibliography.) It’s easy to see how these feelings take root in academics. At many points—especially early on—we are judged on our potential while being given very little concrete feedback on our finished work. The emphasis on the potential over the actual easily leads to anxiety. We are admitted to graduate school on the basis of past performance and a statement of what we hope to do in the future. The grant application, the conference abstract, and the dissertation proposal all follow the same pattern: we write a compact and aspirational text and then start to worry that we won’t be able to produce the actual work. Not living up to our promising promises will lead to us finally being revealed as the frauds we secretly believe ourselves to be.

Needless to say, this description rings true for lots of us and shows an awful cycle in which successes can make some people more uneasy. Instead of enjoying being ABD, a doctoral student might believe that, with all the ‘easier’ steps completed, she will now be unable to write the dissertation. The imposter mindset is pernicious because it often feels cumulative; each new success means that the fraud has still not been detected, making the eventual unmasking of the imposter even worse. Imposter syndrome thrives when we fail to take into account the meaning of all the success we experience. The antidote is to trust the people who grant us approval along the way. Think of how easily we often denigrate that approval: ‘I was just lucky.’ ‘It was a weak field of applicants.’ ‘Nobody else was available.’ Any of those statements could be true—and there are real benefits to humility—but we almost never know them to be true. We all need to trust the experience and expertise of the people who express approbation. Of course, any given evaluator may in fact be throwing a stack of papers down the stairs and using the results to make decisions, but such randomness is rare. Over time, positive results mean something, and dismissing those positive responses as error or luck denies us the opportunity to deepen our confidence in our own abilities. (Here is a helpful post from Inside Higher Ed on the role of mentoring in managing feelings of inadequacy in graduate school. And another from The Singular Scientist blog that deals with the full spectrum of under- and over-confidence.)

Given all this, surely it seems useful to talk about imposter syndrome. I certainly encourage graduate students to be reflective about the way that approbation functions in academia. We can all benefit from being able to take a compliment. And there are people whose sense of their own imposterhood is so deep as to be a significant impediment to their work. So I am not objecting to the use of the term, but rather to the notion that it applies to all of us. In other words, my objection is to the way that a universal application of the term appears to pathologize inevitable aspects of academic life.

This overuse of the term concerns me for two reasons. In the first place, if the term is used to describe everyone, then it doesn’t have much power left to help those who are genuinely suffering. Those who need  resources to help them find a way to internalize their successes might be helped by having the term reserved for a more specific condition. What’s more, the widespread use of the term can hide the ways in which some people are made to feel as though they are imposters. Some may experience imposterhood all on their own, but others are having these thoughts thrust upon them by an inhospitable academy. You can’t be expected to solve your own sense of imposterhood when attitudes towards your identity–as a woman, a racialized person, an LGBTQ person, a disabled person, a first gen graduate student, a second language user–demonstrate an ongoing belief that you don’t belong.

In the second place, I worry that treating dis-comfort as exceptional contributes to the notion that we ought to feel comfortable. In particular, I am troubled by the notion that we ought to feel comfortable about academic writing. Writers must learn to live with a great deal of uncertainty and vulnerability. Exposing our ideas to public scrutiny is uncomfortable, and recognizing that discomfort as inevitable can actually help make us more comfortable. The recognition of discomfort acknowledges the inherent and ongoing challenges of academic expression. It helps keep us humble, which matters if we are going to produce interesting and honest work. It makes us work harder than we might otherwise do. Academic writing is a struggle and not a realm in which confidence and complacency are ever likely to predominate. It’s not my intention to valorize any notion of suffering for art, but rather to accept the likelihood that producing good academic prose that we are willing to present to the public will be a struggle. Students often seek out writing instruction so that the writing process will become easier. However, in many cases, it’s more realistic to focus on writing better than to focus on lessening the emotional costs of writing. This acceptance of writing as an intrinsically challenging act seems particularly important for novice writers who often assume that the challenges come from their inexperience rather than from the very nature of academic writing.

Overall, while I see great benefit in understanding the dynamics of imposter syndrome, I want to be cautious about the idea that there is something wrong with us if we find academic writing deeply challenging. For most academic writers, the best course of action may be to acknowledge the psychic toll that writing takes and to focus on acquiring strategies to make both the writing and the writing process better.

17 responses to “Imposter Syndrome and Academic Writing

  1. Rachel, thank you for this post. I am experiencing the anxiety associated with imposter syndrome and appreciated reading your thoughts and feel encouraged to persevere as I am ABD. The writing courses and workshops offered by ELWS have been very helpful in moving me along this process over the last six months.

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  3. Reblogged this on Jason B Colditz and commented:
    “Imposter syndrome” strikes deep in the process of tailoring an academic CV, biographical sketch, or letter of interest to a particular audience (whether it be for a job or as part of a grant application). While our most relevant qualities and experiences are stretched almost to the breaking point, this is where the “syndrome” is most helpful for encouraging some restraint in not pushing the narrative too far. Although, if we don’t push against these boundaries, there is little hope of progressing beyond the imposters that we presume ourselves to be.

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  5. I’m in the second day (!) of my PhD and this was a helpful article. Thanks Rachel.

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  9. Laura Steckley

    Thank you for your writing, Rachel. I particularly like how you make visible nearly all academics’ discomfort (or anxiety) about writing. Too often people feel they’re the only one and that it indicates there’s something wrong with them.

    I also think there is something to be said about the distinction between feelings associated with imposter syndrome and actually having it. When I write, I am often overwhelmed by feelings of inadequacy in trying to articulate myself — a sense of not being competent, entitled or qualified is very strong. Rationally, even at the time of writing, I know this isn’t the case, though sometimes it does come from a legitimate place — for instance I haven’t thought something through enough to be able to write clearly about it, and the very act of writing is part of my development of thinking. I also have feelings of competence in relation to my writing, but usually outside of the time and space of writing. I imagine this is very common for many of us. So I have internalised my success, but, for a variety of reasons, I still grapple with contrary feelings.

    One final note: while I agree that discomfort has it’s place and is of value, I also think that actively managing writing-related anxieties can improve clarity of thinking. There’s probably also something to be said for working to change one’s relationship with that anxiety and possibly even reframing it — which is perhaps something you’re doing with this blog. Containing anxiety such that it is more consciously experienced, named, tolerated and made sense of, helps to make it more manageable and less detrimental. Rowena Murray’s work on writing in social spaces has been of significant value to me, and I had the good fortune of writing with her about containment theory and structured writing retreats. I highly recommend her new book or other articles on the subject.

    • Thanks for your comment, Laura. I agree–while it’s important to acknowledge the discomfort associated with writing, that is not to say discomfort is a great starting point for writing. A little less discomfort could definitely enhance the clarity of our thoughts and contribute to our overall ability to produce good writing.

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  11. Great post, Rachael! My view is that impostor syndrome would go away in a generation if we (a) did more on-site written exams with not aides and (b) graded students on a curve. It’s that simple. (More here.)

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