“I feel like a fraud. I feel like I’ve tricked them into admitting me.”
This was the entry I made to my journal on April 2, 2020. I remember that day vividly. I was completely distraught on the phone with my mum in Singapore. Why? Well, while freelancing I’d been accepted to graduate journalism programmes at Columbia University, UC Berkeley and the Erasmus Mundus Consortium. At the time, they were ranked 12, 6 and 1 respectively on the QS World Ranking system for journalism.
Yet, it felt like the end of the world.
Imposter syndrome can manifest this way. When good things happen, I instantly think I don’t deserve it. I work myself to burnout. I don’t sleep. I barely eat. Weekends are forgone for work that’s perfect or spent procrastinating. Otherwise, there’s guilt, there’s shame, being distributed like drugs to run a large crime syndicate. Paradoxically, I can also be laughably ostentatious about my success – as if being insufferable can quiet the doubt in my brain. But it’s all fuelled by the same belief.
Pain is progress.
Paradoxically, I can also be laughably ostentatious about my success – as if being insufferable can quiet the doubt in my brain. But it’s all fuelled by the same belief.
This message was constantly reinforced in my formative years. I was raised in a culture that only accepts the norm. As a Bangladeshi that meant going to school, going to university, getting married, having children, raising them and living out the rest of life. Only tangible success related to this mattered – grades and numbers on papers, trophies and plaques on shelves. And of course, they had to be in financially sustainable fields – law, engineering, medicine. Growing up with multihyphenate geniuses who checked all those boxes, being the best wasn’t an option for me – it was a requirement.
Anything less and I’m nothing.
As a journalist, I’ve carried this mindset with me. I’ve pushed myself to report on criminal cases at the Supreme Court of Queensland, sexual harassment in Saudi Arabia and ethnic cleansing of Rohingyas in Myanmar. I’ve interviewed a political dissident, a government whistle-blower, a mass extinction scientist, even met a Nobel Prize winner. Honestly, I wasn’t ready for any of it. But I wanted to prove my worth. I wanted to be the best.
Being the only woman of colour in most newsrooms only compounded this imposter syndrome. The more mainstream the Australian media outlet, the starker this reality became. So, the harder I worked. Days faded to night and I ran on autopilot. I only stopped because my aching body, my clenched jaw told me I had to. Sometimes it felt like I must be on a crusade to be the face and voice of an entire country – rationalising government choices I never agreed with, waxing poetic about things completely out of my depth. I wanted to defend my country. I wanted to erase the negative stereotypes of Bangladeshis in media. It was a tremendous responsibility I’d placed on my own shoulders.
It still feels like I’m Atlas.
But I can’t hold up the world forever.
Imposter syndrome takes the best parts of me - my ambition, my tenacity, my passion, my ingenuity - and makes them corrosive.
When I try, it all comes crashing down. My pre-existing depression and anxiety skyrockets to mythic proportions. They feed into the imposter syndrome, symptoms overlapping till the perpetual cycle is complete and I’m ossified. Imposter syndrome takes the best parts of me - my ambition, my tenacity, my passion, my ingenuity - and makes them corrosive.
But how can I stop leaving myself in ruins?
Well, Riposo seems like a good idea. It means “to rest” in Italian. Culturally, they place great emphasis on the body’s need to rest. So, every working day, especially in smaller towns, closing down shops, restaurants, even police stations and banks between the hours of 12 – 1:30 pm and 2:30 - 4 pm is usual. While I don’t completely stop working, I’m learning to listen to what my brain needs. Sometimes I need to power through a slump. Sometimes I need to binge old seasons of Supernatural for a whole day. Sometimes I need to sleep at 9 pm, sometimes at 1 am. I try harder to pull myself away from work to see my friends. I try to remember to reply. I read actual physical books for fun again. I go on walks. I make myself tea in the morning.
I still regress though. And those times are the most frustrating. Because instantly I’m asking myself, “Was it all for nothing?” But then I remember I’m human. I’m not perfect. And there will be plenty of obstacles and detours on the way to progress. So, I must be kinder, more patient with myself.
That’s all I can do.
