The two men stared back at me as I stammered out the question in Spanish again:
“Do you want bacon?”
Was I using the wrong word for bacon?
“Como se dice ‘bacon’?” I asked one of them while making a pig noise to add a little clarity to the question.
He told me, and I realized I was using the right word for bacon. So, I asked them again in Spanish: “Do you want bacon?” Still, they looked perplexed. Finally, one man looked in his pockets, which I found strange.
They were guests at the food outreach I was volunteering at. My job was to check in folks, get some info, and give them their groceries. This month we were blessed with a ton of bacon. Since only some eat pork, I always asked if they wanted it before plopping it in their bags. I was trying my hardest to communicate and starting to get frustrated.
Then it hit me. I wasn’t asking if they wanted bacon (quieres). I was asking if they HAD BACON (tienes). Of course they were confused! So here they are, just trying to get some food for their families, and I’m over here asking them if they had bacon to give me!
Soon they were on their way with a bag full of groceries (and bacon), laughing at the misunderstanding. I was laughing at myself too. I was used to it. My Spanish isn’t the best—once, at a Thanksgiving event, I asked a gentleman what the Spanish word was for Turkey. Since he did not quite understand what I was saying, I tried to mime being a Turkey and called it “you know, like a Pollo Rey… a king chicken!”
Most people in the Midwest are surprised to learn that I am half-Mexican. This is very common in California, where over 50% of the state self-identifies as Hispanic. Spanish language in my family tree died out over the generations, so hungry was my family to assimilate and be “American” that they did not pass it down. I remember older relatives speaking it to me when I was young, and sometimes Spanish would explode out of my brain when needed. In Cuba once, I got into an argument with a bouncer who wasn’t letting in another group of Americans (the only group of Americans I had seen the whole trip), and somehow in Spanish, said, “I know there is room inside! I was just in there!”
You could not incentivize me with all the Duolingo gems in the world to spontaneously put that sentence together right now. I can only speak in the present tense, so all my observations about life have to happen now. I can say, “I am cleaning the bathroom today,” but I can not say, “I will clean the bathroom tomorrow,” which is a much more helpful phrase. I often mix up need, have, want, and can, as witnessed in the bacon interaction. I am making significant progress, but I am impatient to be fluent. It feels like some marker of my legitimacy as a person with Mexican-American roots.
Imposter Syndrome was first defined in the 1970s by researchers Suzanna Imes and Pauline Rose Clance. Initially, it was a research field centered on the experiences of high-performing working women. The hallmarks of Imposter Syndrome include:
The fear of being exposed as a fraud
An inability to accept a compliment
Criticizing yourself after someone gives you praise
Underestimating your own competence
When I speak Spanish, and someone understands me, I feel like I am connecting with my roots. But I still feel like a phony. I don’t feel enough Hispanic to be able to check that box on the census. But I don’t feel un-Hispanic either. I float between the two, without two feet landing squarely on one side.
Was I to list all the situations in my life where Imposter Syndrome reared its ugly head, today’s post would take four hours to read. Here are some highlights in chronological order:
Being asked to sit at the cool girl’s table in 5th grade, convinced that it was all part of some Carrie-esque “they’re all gonna laugh at you” prank.
Getting chosen for an advanced math class in 6th grade, being the only girl, and assuming it was because of a gender quota.
Packed into an underground concert venue, pretending to love the deafening punk music and sure everyone around me knew I didn’t belong there.
Attending a “mommy and me” music class and dreading anyone figuring out how little I knew what I was doing with this baby.
Getting into the top graduate school in my field, even though my GRE score for math was the lowest they had ever admitted. I was sure it was an affirmative action thing.
Regularly presenting my work at economics conferences to rooms full of middle-aged men eager to shoot holes in my research.
Becoming a professor and being trusted to shape young minds, positive at any minute, they would figure out that I didn’t know what I was talking about.
Being a woman in tech, constantly being talked over or discounted.
Praying out loud for the first time in a small group of people, paralyzed by my fear of saying the wrong thing.
Writing this series and doubting whether I was even an authority on any of this.
Imposter Syndrome is one of the sharpest tools in the enemy's box. Because there are forces of good in the world, there are forces of evil. There always will be the darkness that infiltrates our minds and tells us we don’t belong, that we aren’t good enough and that it was just dumb luck that got us where we are. There are external voices, too, certain that one person's success somehow drains the likelihood of success for another. It can be so hard to hold fast to the truth—that we are blessed with talents and gifts, called and chosen, and placed for a purpose.
Every one of Jesus’ best friends probably felt, at one time or another, that they didn’t belong there. “Who am I?” they must have thought, “to be trusted with so much?”
This is a question I ask myself almost daily.
The answer can go one of two ways. First, we can say, “I’m just lucky. This is just a coincidence. This was a mistake.”
Or, we can say, “I’m God’s daughter, and if He trusts me, then I trust myself too.”
God doesn’t set us up for a 100% success rate by our earthly standards. Sometimes we will say the wrong word or fall flat on our faces during an important presentation. We will doubt our abilities, but then we will rise again. He doesn’t promise us an easy road, just an inexplicably amazing destination.
To let go of Imposter Syndrome requires relinquishing our identity in the world. We need to let go of saying “Wife, Mother, Executive, Runner, Dancer, Lover of Jesus” in our Instagram bios. Instead, Jesus comes first. We are adopted children in a family of God first so that we can do all of those other things better.
Overcoming Imposter Syndrome also means discernment of our calling. We will not be good at everything. I repeat WE WILL NOT BE GOOD AT EVERYTHING. So often, my Imposter Syndrome flares up because I’m trying to walk away from my God-given talents into a space I am not equipped for. The “do what you love, and you’ll never work a day in your life” mentality is so entitled. Just because I love singing in my car doesn’t mean I should be leading worship. I know my limitations enough to know that I won’t be doing classical ballet on stage but that I definitely could crush a Fosse-inspired Jazz routine. God gave us these beautiful talents to hone, and it requires a lot of maturity and honesty to find the solid building blocks. We must ask ourselves if we know the difference between want and need, in any language.
Imposter Syndrome can hit us very quickly, almost like a mini-Panic Attack. In these moments, all we can do is pray and ask the Holy Spirit for a supernatural rush of confidence. I never want to be so clinical in my faith, so obsessed with understanding the ins and outs of every verse, that I forget my best tool. The minute I start to tell myself, “I don’t belong here. I’m going to be found out. Why did I even attempt this?!?!” I must remember to breathe and ask the Holy Spirit for the right words.
Of all the earthly people who didn’t “belong,” no one is less qualified on paper to be the author of some of our most potent Biblical texts than Paul. If you received Saul’s CV for a job posting of “Major Contributor and Strategist for Early Christianity” and he had listed his skills as “persecuting Christians” and “stoning people,” I doubt he’d get a call from the recruiter. And yet, he got the job.
One of my dearest friends and I recently chatted about trying new things. She said something so simple and powerful that I couldn’t get it out of my head. She said, “why NOT me?”
This is the motto for our overcoming Imposter Syndrome. These three words are the equivalent of “get behind me, Satan.” I dare you to try and say this without smiling. I challenge you to find at least three times this week that you can say it for yourself.
Why not me?
Por que no yo?
Pourquoi pas moi?
In any language, it’s music to God’s ears.