How Imposter Syndrome Laughed in My Face

And how I laughed with it.

I recently wrote about how excited I was to admit to the world (or rather, to myself) that I am a writer, rather than an aspiring writer. I felt confident and finally free.

But I was foolishly not prepared for the next question that would prompt me to elaborate on that fact. I say foolishly because, why did I not envision answering the very next obvious question after “what do you do for a living?”

It’s not every day you hear someone say you’re a writer. Still – the first time I answered this question in a formal setting it was met with a sense of nonchalance which I took as a welcome surprise. It symbolised the worldwide acceptance of me, something I was really proud of receiving that day.

So when the question I answered in exactly the same way was met with a second question the other day, I was stumped.

The Scene

I am socially awkward and timid — I told you about it here. When a designer and her builder husband came round to look at the downstairs area of our house to get ideas about what could be done to improve it, a lot of light chit chat was had (through masks and socially distanced, of course).

I explained to the designer that I needed more space in our living room, or at least the illusion of more space, without sacrificing our couch. It’s the most comfortable couch I have ever sat on. It’s huge, extremely deep, and can fit like 5 people on it with a little bit of wiggle room. We stretch out on it where both the hubby and I can lie across either end and be able to lie our feet next to each other without feeling like we’re invading each other’s private space.

But it takes up a lot of room, and it doesn’t leave much walking or playing space for our toddler. When we have guests, I feel claustrophobic.

Anyway. With this conversation about the necessity for our big sofa, and the light chit chat about the couple’s professional history, I went into a proud wife mode and started talking about my husband’s achievements, and the reason for the need to keep our extremely large couch. I had to include him in some way since he wasn’t in the room, of course!

I said how my husband, the tallest professional American ex-basketball player, needed this couch to remain – or to find something extremely similar in depth and length (we could compromise on the corner bit).

As they exclaimed in awe and intrigue, I felt encouraged to continue putting my husband up on a pedestal.

The couch now forgotten, I explained that after he voluntarily retired early from basketball, he moved to England and we met at university where he studied computer science, and he became a Software Engineer straight out of college. Today, he is a business owner and a lead in the field, I said smugly.

Andriel, our son, giggled as he said “papaaaaaa” with proud eyes as he pointed upstairs to his dad’s office, just to emphasize that this man was a man to be proud of.

If Devonte had been in the room, his head would’ve grown the size of a football pitch. I could hear him giggling in my head and saying,

“Stop it! You’re making me blush!”

For context, here is a snapshot of my husband:

Yes, he loves cracking that joke.

The couple seemed impressed and continued asking questions.

Eventually, they came on to the topic of me and my beaming pride wasn’t so beamy anymore. They asked me what I do for a living.

I became awkward because I often find it difficult to talk about myself to others, especially when I’m used to Devonte taking the lead here to talk about me. But Devonte wasn’t in the room, it was my time to shine, so again, I mustered the courage to say,

“I’m a writer!”

With a bright smile on my face.

And their response was:

“Oh, wow! What do you write about?”

Crack in Confidence

I think I’ve mentioned how I’m a bit socially awkward. I talked about how I’m not spontaneously funny especially to people I don’t know that well. In fact, I am an expert at cracking really, really bad jokes and it has made people leave the room in silent embarrassment for me. Just picture the most humiliating moments you’ve had, and anticipate to feel this for me now.

The more I think about it, the funnier it is in hindsight, actually. After I answered their question I tried to muster a more elaborate response and it just got worse, and worse, and worse.

But, it brought my husband and me to tears of laughter as I relayed the scene back to him after the designer and her husband left. What I was first telling as an embarrassing story turned into a joke that I will forever remember with a tremendous grin across my face.

When the designer’s husband asked me what I write about, this is what happened:

“Me!”

“Oh?”

“My life, my experiences, my stories. The three Ms, ha-ha!”

“Err, cool!”

“Motherhood, love, mindfulness…stuff...”

Andriel, aged almost 2, being the gentleman that he is, upon sensing the sand dune I was drowning in, did the decent thing by interrupting me before I had the chance to dig my own grave and waved goodbye to the couple. They left on cue.

Thanks for saving me, son.

I knowww.

It was awkward AF.

I felt it, they felt it.

The scene lingered in our house for hours after, despite me trying my hardest to evacuate it by lighting my comfort chocolate candles.

Honestly, it could have not sounded any more narcissistic. And the thing is, I reckon if Will Smith said those words (he would find a better way of saying them but if he actually did say those words) they would be well taken. If Devonte said those words, he would’ve said them in that deliberate arrogant manner he does and it would’ve been hilarious.

But me saying them? Thank god no one else was there to witness the scene, especially my husband, I would not have heard the end of it for months.

Obviously, I write about more than just me. I aim to add value to others’ lives. But when I was asked about it, I was just not ready.

My confidence faltered.

I was caught off guard, and it made me nervous. I got imposter syndrome once again because I couldn’t, in a confident manner, explain what I write about because sometimes I still feel like I’m not really a writer — or a good writer at that. Once you’ve practised self-doubt so long, it is difficult for its presence to just vanish.

Takeaway

The thing is, it is OK to write about myself and explain it in a way that won’t sound so…cringing. Everyone is unique, everyone is interesting, and everyone should be able to talk about themselves without someone else criticising them for being self-centred.

My fear of admitting my entitlement to talk about myself was so great at that moment that it came out all wrong.

The key is to own those moments, for they can come in handy later. Writing about them is my way of “getting over them”. In the grand scheme of things, they do not make a bit of difference to me. It is unlikely the designer couple will even remember I said what I said, anyway, and if so, who cares?

Now, instead of looking at that embarrassing moment and letting it rob me of my confidence, I look at it as one of the funniest moments this year. It is not humiliation that I feel, but joy.

And the lesson here is that with a different reaction, you can change the way you see yourself.

If we don’t have a sense of humor, we lack a sense of perspective. - Wayne Thiebaud

Sylvia Emokpae, thinker and philosopher, is passionate about self-love and motherhood. See more work like this.

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