The Lies We Tell Ourselves (A Letter to the Impostor)

There’s a specific kind of fear that doesn’t scream—it whispers.
It shows up when you’re about to raise your hand.
When you’re praised.
When you’re offered a seat at the table.
It whispers:

“You don’t belong here.”
“You must have fooled them.”
“You’re going to be found out.”

This is impostor syndrome.

And it doesn’t always sound cruel—it often sounds cautious.
Like it’s trying to protect you from embarrassment.
Like it’s keeping you humble.

But underneath that quiet voice is a lie so deep it feels like truth,
That you aren’t enough.
And the thing is—it doesn’t always come in loud, dramatic waves.
Sometimes it’s small moments:

When you rewrite an email five times before sending it.
When someone compliments your work and you say, “Oh, it was nothing.”
When you don’t speak up in a meeting, even though you had something meaningful to
add.
When you over-prepare for something you’ve already mastered—just in case.

Impostor syndrome doesn’t just question your success.
It questions your right to succeed.
It makes confidence feel like arrogance, and effort feel like a fluke.
And we don’t talk about it enough.
We talk about burnout, anxiety, perfectionism—

but this?

This is the voice that threads through all of them, quietly convincing you that you’re only as good as your last mistake.
That you’ve slipped through the cracks and sooner or later, someone will notice.
But let me tell you what that voice really is:
It’s not truth.
It’s trauma.

It’s the residue of years spent in rooms that weren’t made to hold you.
It’s the shape you learned to shrink into to stay safe.
It’s self-doubt dressed in logic, in humility, in “being realistic.”
And it’s a lie.

Because the truth is this:

You are not a fraud—you are simply growing.
And growth often feels like fraudulence at first.
Why? Because it’s unfamiliar. Because it stretches you.
Because you haven’t yet caught up to the reality of your own becoming.

Especially if you’re someone who was taught to downplay yourself.
Especially if you’ve had to work twice as hard to be taken half as seriously.
Especially if you’ve internalized the idea that confidence must be earned—but only quietly.
But you do not have to apologize for taking up space.

You do not have to overachieve to justify your presence.
And you are not a fluke, or a lucky break, or an exception to the rule.
You are the result of persistence, courage, and care.
So the next time that voice comes—pause.

Ask yourself:

Would I say this to someone I admire?
Would I say it to someone I love?
If not, don’t say it to you.

This is the same voice from before—remember?
The one that calls you names in the mirror.
The one that turns mistakes into proof of failure.
It’s clever. It adapts. But it’s still wrong.
You are not trespassing.
You are arriving.

So whisper back:
“This is me. And I belong here.”
Say it like a spell.
Say it until the roots take hold.
Say it until the silence has no choice but to listen.

Because you were never the impostor.

You were always the real thing.

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