“How is this real life?”
I asked myself this question every day last week, while attending the Glen Workshop, which is self-described as “equal parts creative workshop, arts festival, and spiritual retreat.” My question emerged from a mixture of feeling awestruck and unworthy.
It’s a feeling any of us might get if we happen to rub shoulders with our role models in real life, finding ourselves, say, at any kind of conference, class, or meeting with people we admire but can’t come to consider ourselves “on par” with. It’s a feeling clinical psychologists have called “impostor syndrome,” an experience “marked by an inability to internalize … accomplishments and a persistent fear of being exposed as a ‘fraud.'”
When I’ve arrived at gatherings like the Glen, I’ve sometimes gone to bed on Day One thinking and praying and asking Google about impostor syndrome. And I’ve never found a solution. Until now.
Last week, at the Glen, I started learning to humanize my heroes. (Maybe I started learning to humanize all people — but that’s a story for another day.)
In my Spiritual Writing workshop, for instance, I sat next to some published authors I had previously only seen — or “seen” — on Facebook and Twitter. To be clear, the class included writers of varying experience levels. But certainly a few had published books and at first I struggled to bring these people down from the invisible pedestal on which I had placed them.
In this setting, thanks be to God (and to the Glen), it seemed we were all essentially equals. They other writers offered feedback on my writing and I offered feedback on theirs. They didn’t draw attention to the fact that they had book deals and definitely didn’t draw attention to the fact that I didn’t. On the contrary, they looked into my eyes and my words, and they saw vision and voice that they somehow blessedly believed in — sometimes more than me. They laughed and cried and drank countless cups of coffee and crafted countless drafts until reaching their point of publication. Our teacher, Kaya Oakes, a writing instructor at UC-Berkeley and author of at least 4 books, told us very frankly about her stage fright one day, knowing that she would be giving a reading and Q&A that evening to a large audience. We all nodded in understanding, being the writers and mostly-introverts that we were.
Outside of class too, in the cafeteria and poetry readings and evening worship services, I sat among “artists, writers, musicians, art appreciators, and spiritual wayfarers of all stripes,” as the Glen Workshop website puts it, all of whom sought similar kinds of sweet dreams and spoke of similar kinds of struggles and breathed the same Santa Fe air. One afternoon, an author and aspiring minister (like myself) prayed for me — like laid a hand on my shoulder and invited the Lord into our lives and our work kind of praying for me. Later, I prayed for her and have continued to. On the last day, poets Malcolm Guite and Luci Shaw anointed our hands to go and build beauty in the world. Because we can’t do it on our own; we need the seeking and the speaking, the praying and the anointing.
Fear and faith, doubt and do-it-anyway — these are paradoxes that apparently we are all familiar with.
When I spoke with another young lady at the Glen about impostor syndrome, she immediately said: “You too? I thought that was just me!” We talked and shared our sense that “I don’t deserve to be here” and eventually she said this:
“If we’re here, maybe we belong here.”
I think sometimes that’s true. If we get to thinking “I don’t deserve to be here,” wherever that “here” may be, maybe we should take a deep breath, sink our feet into the ground on which we stand, see the good-and-bad humanness of the people (even the initially intimidating people) around us, see some good-and-bad humanness in our own selves, and say this: “I’m here. An admissions committee decided I could be here or an employer hired me or God called me or whatever the case may be. But I’m here. So, maybe I belong here.”
I am not just an impostor with a syndrome. I’m a seeker with a spirit that is at once so scared and so strong. And so are you, friend. So are you. Maybe we belong.