Imposter Syndrome: My Brain’s Favourite Party Trick

There were certain things I expected in my twenties — rent, heartbreak, the realisation that spinach wilts faster than my enthusiasm for meal prep.

What I didn’t expect was how permanent imposter syndrome would become: it’s always on, whispering that I don’t belong.

And yes, that’s dramatic. But the irony? It’s also completely wrong.

At work, as someone very new to journalism, it hits hardest. 

I sit in meetings and wonder if everyone else knows I have no experience. My internal voice: “They hired you because you’re cheap.”

In social situations, it shows up as well. Laughing at a joke feels amateur, introducing myself feels rehearsed, and taking up space feels like I’m waiting to be evicted.

Whilst travelling through Japan, I bought a Daruma doll which is a traditional Japanese symbol of perseverance and good luck. 

You colour in one eye when you set a goal; when you reach it, you colour in the second.

I coloured the first eye and made one clear intention: become a journalist.

Now, almost a year in, the second eye is still blank.

Not because I technically haven’t achieved that goal, but because I’m convinced I’m still faking it.

I show up, I write, I try and yet somehow I believe the doll knows something I don’t.

It’s tempting to personalise the experience: I just need more confidence; I just need better training. But the real story runs deeper, through culture, gender, systems.

In Australia, the feeling is widespread. Recent research shows more than half of Australian workers have experienced imposter syndrome in the past year.

What’s interesting is that the number actually dropped from 68% to 54% — not because we suddenly got more confident, but because burnout has become its own full-time job.

For women, the numbers land even harder. A 2024 analysis of the Australian health sector found imposter feelings were a major factor holding women back from leadership roles.

It’s not that we’re less capable — we’re just more trained to second-guess ourselves.

We were raised on messages like “work twice as hard”, “be humble”, “don’t take up too much space”, “don’t be too loud”, “don’t forget to smile”. 

Then we sit across the table from confidence and wonder why we don’t feel like we belong.

Yes, men feel it too, but I’ve noticed far more women whispering “I feel like I’m not enough”, while men sometimes apply for roles they satisfy only 60 % of the criteria for.

The experience isn’t only internal. 

My imposter syndrome arrives in small, absurd moments. Waiting to lounge in your exchange with a colleague, you think: “If they knew I don’t really know this topic, they’d leave the room.” 

In a meeting you’re hesitant to speak because maybe you’ll reveal yourself. At home, you complete a task and still feel like you haven’t done enough.

It’s perfectionism squealing at you to do more work just in case.

It’s self-doubt so deep you believe the compliments are jokes. It’s the constant refrain: “I’m playing a character”.

If my imposter syndrome had a voice, yes, it would sound like a toxic ex saying, “Are you sure you can handle this?” And because I’m dramatic (and low on coffee), the answer is usually: “Probably not.”

Nothing magical or fast. But a few things change the game:

• Seeing other women succeed, not effortlessly or flawlessly, but through grit and visible struggle, reminds me I’m not alone.

  
  
  
  

• Realising this isn’t a personal failing but a signal that you’re stretching, doing more, reaching further.

  
  
  
  

• Keeping evidence of what you have done such as emails, feedback, milestones so the narrative isn’t just in your head.

  
  
  
  

• Changing the conversation: you do deserve to be here without having to meet some invisible threshold of worth.

  
  
  
  

If I could tell my 18-year-old self anything it would be: You don’t have to feel qualified to be deserving. You don’t need any more permission to take up space.

And most importantly: feeling like an imposter doesn’t mean you are one.

You’re here. You show up. You do the work.

And yes, some part of you may still believe you’re faking it, and good.

Because the real test of belonging isn’t when you stop doubting. It’s when you keep doing it anyway.

Colour in that second eye, even if your hand shakes a little.

M x