Imposter Syndrome

They see me as the expert. “Dr. Sharon Murchie is here with a writing workshop for you and she’s going to teach you how to write for college.” 20 eyes look at me resignedly…they don’t really want to be here. They are tired. They don’t really want to write. They’d rather be somewhere else. They don’t know me. I don’t know them. I am the expert of nothing in this space. And yet, here I am.

I didn’t sleep well last night. I am exhausted. I heard the rain, felt the thunder. Couldn’t get the song on auto-repeat out of my head. My fitbit says I got 4 hours and 5 minutes of sleep. How do I reach 10 kids I’ve never even met about “college writing” and get them interested in something? I wouldn’t be interested in that workshop, not then, not now. I have no idea what I’m doing in this space. I’m not even sure I know anything about how to write. I’ve always been nervous before a new school year begins —Can I hook them in? Will they think I’m funny? Will they trust me enough to go on the journey with me? Do I have what it takes?— but this is even worse. I have 3 hours to reach 10 kids.

I am an imposter.

They see me as an expert. “Dr. Sharon Murchie from Chippewa River Writing Project is here to lead Write Across America activity today.” Oh dear. I can’t get my sound enabled, my mic is a hot mess, there’s a dump truck driving down the road and the lady next door decided to choose this moment to mow her lawn. I have my doctorate in ed tech and I’ve been running zoom meetings for years and today I can’t figure out how to enable co-host, how to get the video to play with sound, and how to get my neighbor to pick more convenient times for her yard work.

I am an imposter.

I tell them I’m a runner. I have a running girl tattooed on my ankle. Just 3 years ago, I hit 1064 days on my running streak before I broke my ankle. I was heavy then. I’m heavier now. I still list “runner” on my bio, but I know that my occasional slow jogs aren’t much. I probably couldn’t run much more than a mile right now. But I stubbornly hold on to that title. I am a runner. I am a runner on back roads in the country, where no one will see me, no one will judge my form. I hear their voices in my head…”awww, look at that fat old lady trying to run.” 

I am an imposter. 

“You’re such a great mom,” they tell me. I look at them out of the corner of my eye…if only they knew. My daughter didn’t come out of her room yesterday, even though her Nana was there to visit. My son hung up on me when I called him, mad that I’d ruined his summer by following his doctor’s orders and forcing him to go to physical therapy. They don’t know how to do laundry, how to do dishes. I hide nothing from them and they know about the world…but they don’t know how to make pancakes or mow the lawn. They drop the F-bomb every third sentence, even in front of Nana, when they should know better. They argue with me about everything. They are smart and passionate and compassionate and active and they were on their phones for 14 hours yesterday.

I am an imposter.

I wonder what it would be like, to see me through their eyes, the people who think I know what I’m doing. Am I smart? Mean? Fat? Old? Cool Mom? Weird? Lazy? Driven? What do they see?

Would I like me?

I think, through their eyes, that I might be kind of bad-ass. That’s a strange thought…me as bad-ass. But I think maybe that’s what they see.

I think, through their eyes, they might see me as strong and capable. As unique. As a pretty woman who doesn’t look bad for her age. I’m sure that the first thing they see is my weight, but what if it’s not? What if the first thing they see is my heart? What if the first thing they see is my soul?

I think that, through their eyes, I might be okay. I might be an expert. I might be capable. I might not be an imposter.

I think that they might be kinder to me than I am to myself.