Impostor syndrome in academia: What it is, why it’s so common, and how to manage it
Impostor syndrome is the belief that you’re not as accomplished/clever/competent/hard-working (and so on) as others think you are. It is really, really common in academia. It comes up in a significant proportion of the coaching calls I have with clients, even if it’s not the issue we think we’re there to talk about. And it can be a stressful, isolating, horrible experience that has an impact on all aspects of your life.
What is impostor syndrome?
Impostor syndrome is all about believing you aren’t as competent as others perceive you to be. Even in the face of objective evidence of success, people with impostor syndrome doubt their abilities and fear they will be exposed as a fraud when others find out that they aren’t actually as competent as they may seem. Apart from making you feel exhausted and generally crappy all round, it also prevents very capable people from recognising and embracing their achievements and can hold them back from reaching their full potential and fulfilment.
Impostor syndrome comes in many different flavours, but some of the common signs include:
Persistent self-doubt: Feeling like your success is due to luck rather than ability.
Fear of failure: Being terrified of making mistakes because they will show everyone that you weren’t supposed to be here in the first place.
Perfectionism: Struggling to finish tasks because they never feel good enough.
Overworking: Going above and beyond to ‘prove’ your worth.
Avoiding opportunities: Not applying for grants, jobs, or other opportunities because you feel unqualified.
Sound familiar? If so, read on…
Who experiences impostor syndrome in academia?
Impostor syndrome doesn’t discriminate by career stage or discipline. While it’s often associated with early-career researchers and PhD students, from my experience, senior academics and professors are just as prone to experiencing it – it’s not something that you snap out of when you get to a particular point in your career.
That said, there are reasons why some people might be particularly vulnerable to it:
PhD students and postdocs: When you’re just starting out in research, it’s easy to feel like you don’t belong – especially when you’re surrounded by peers who seem (or maybe pretend to be!) more knowledgeable or accomplished. The academic environment can feel isolating, making it difficult to gauge your own progress and leaving many junior academics feeling out of their depth.
First-generation academics: If you’re the first in your family to pursue higher education or an academic career, there’s a distinct sense of navigating an unfamiliar world without a guide. This lack of belonging can fuel the belief that you don’t ‘deserve’ your position or you’re not supposed to be there.
Women and underrepresented minorities: This is particularly so in male-dominated fields or institutions that lack diversity. The feeling that you need to work twice as hard to be taken seriously can amplify the effects of impostor syndrome.
High achievers: Ironically, those who have achieved a lot academically can suffer the most. If you’ve consistently succeeded throughout your academic career, you may feel an increasing pressure to maintain that level of excellence, interpreting any small misstep as proof you’re not really as capable as people think.
Why is impostor syndrome so prevalent in academia?
Academia is a quintessentially high-achieving environment, and impostor syndrome is rife. In many ways, I think academia actively fosters impostor syndrome. First up, it tends to attract perfectionists – people who set impossibly high standards for themselves. Add this to the fact that the culture of academia values ‘brilliance’ at all costs, and you have the perfect set-up for feeling inadequate when you (I, we, all of us) inevitably make a mistake somewhere along the lines. The need to publish, secure funding, and continually produce high-quality work leaves little room for failure, adding to the pressure.
Then we have the general culture of critique. Reviewer Two, you have a lot to answer to here. Feedback in academia often comes in the form of (usually anonymous)(sometimes brutal) peer review, which tends to focus heavily on what’s wrong with the work. The anonymity means that it feels like this reviewer could be anyone – or, indeed, everyone. Does everyone think my work lacks theoretical depth? Is everyone saying my methodological approach is unsound? Is all of this a waste of time? Unsurprisingly, over time, this kind of thing can seriously erode your confidence.
On top of that, academia is notoriously competitive. (Though I do wonder if, instead of telling this ‘competitive’ story, we should instead be talking about academia being ‘under-resourced’ and that this very structural problem of under-funding is being shunted onto individuals in the form of ‘competition’… but that might be for another post.) From grant applications to securing tenure-track positions, there are always more qualified candidates than available opportunities. The very system is premised on the fact of this oversupply of talent. Even when you succeed, it can be hard to shake the feeling that it was a fluke, and that you weren’t the most deserving of the candidates.
And last but not least, the really fun part of impostor syndrome is that once it takes hold, it can be difficult to shake. Once you start to put your success entirely down to external factors (like luck), you discount the part that other factors played, including your own hard work and abilities, and the cycle starts.
What impostor syndrome looks like in practice
During my PhD, I would often joke that there was some other poor Caitlin Hamilton out there waiting for her acceptance letter to the doctoral programme that was accidentally sent to my address. (I was an exceptionally average undergraduate student, and while things picked up in my Masters, I never quite shook the sense that I had hit my academic peak in high school and that I was not doctorate material.)
So, I start my doctorate. But in order to hide the fact that I’m not actually supposed to be there, I have to work really, really hard. I can’t look stupid or be seen to make any mistakes or it will prove that I’m an interloper. But it’s fine, because I just have to do that until I get my doctorate, and then that will be an objective measure of my not-imposter-ness, and I can relax.
So, I work and work and work all hours, while juggling other jobs (because I’m not on a scholarship, so that’s even more evidence, obviously, that I’m behind everyone else and Not PhD Material). And then, eventually, my PhD is awarded. I get the email, my degree gets conferred, I get my bank cards updated with my new title. Hooray: I’m an impostor no more.
But – no! I still feel as fraudulent as ever. And to make matters worse, now the stakes are even higher. I’ve been awarded this prestigious degree that says I’m smart, but actually, I’m still a total mess and now not only have I fooled whoever oversees graduate admissions, but I’ve also convinced my supervisors and my colleagues, the examiners and the university that I’m worthy of this degree. So now I need to do something else to confirm to all of them that I am supposed to be here.
A book: that’s the answer. Do that, and then I’ll feel like I’ve proved yourself. And so the cycle begins again: work work work, secure a contract; work work work, email the publisher to say the manuscript is going to be a couple of months later than expected; work work work, exhausted, deliver the manuscript; work work work, revisions, copy-edits, proofs, and, fed up with it, send the final files back and await publication.
The day comes when I finally see my name on the front cover of a book and… the moment of achievement that is supposed to come now? Yeah, it’s not coming. Because now the book is out there and there’s a whole world that can see I’m a big old fake. Surely now’s the point where the university is going to check its records and say: “Actually, sorry, this is really embarrassing but you were never supposed to be here at all, you’re going to have to give that piece of paper back now and tell everyone you aren’t clever after all.”
But no, a few days pass and then a few weeks, and I seem to get away with it. Brilliant. But also: shit. Now I’ve misled people into thinking not only that I was smart enough to get my PhD but also to write a book. So, now I need to work even harder, play bigger, paddle those little feet under the water even more frantically to make sure no one discovers that, actually, I don’t deserve to be here. Agree to a couple of course convenorships – maybe feeling like a more accomplished teacher is going to do it? Nope. Okay, how about research work that lets me travel internationally and feel all jetsetter-chic? Still nope, but now just nope and jetlagged in a hotel room halfway around the world. Post-doc! Let’s give that a shot. Still nope. Another book? Nope nope nope.
This is the point I tapped out of academia to start Hamilton Editorial and have a baby (because why do one hard and exhausting thing when you can do two simultaneously, right?). But you can see how I could have kept going round and round: Land a continuing position – nope, now things feel even worse because look at all the people who are obviously far more talented than you are that didn’t get this role. Work harder, make sure your new employers don’t realise they’ve made a mistake. Get a grant, that’ll do it. Publish another book, maybe. Go for promotion. Get this number of publications. Get an award. Get a bigger grant. Publish in this especially prestigious journal. Maybe get invited onto its Editorial Board. Get this amount in funding. Take on a prominent academic leadership role. Appear in the media. Get invited to speak at some major international event. On and on: there’s always going to be another objective marker of success which is just out of reach.
And here’s the thing: I work with senior academics who have the most objectively remarkable CVs and who are still living that ‘one more thing and then I will feel accomplished’ cycle. Even now, knowing exactly how all the bits of the impostor syndrome machine work, I still look at these scholars and think: “But you’re so accomplished! How on earth can you have impostor syndrome?! You did [insert half a dozen incredible achievements].” But, of course, they do, because as you may have guessed by now, impostor syndrome isn’t about doing the things; it’s about feelings and a deeper sense of worth.
How to get out of the impostor syndrome cycle
Impostor syndrome is bad because, in the best-case scenario you work all hours and feel underwhelmed and disappointed and crestfallen and a bit empty every time you hit the next milestone. (“I thought it’d feel… more something.”)(See also the phenomenon of the post-submission blues – is this simply an early step in the impostor syndrome cycle, I wonder?) The more likely scenario is that the pace of unsustainable work and stress and expectation will take its toll and you could well, at some point – a year down the track? Five years? Ten years? – fall in a big heap, either metaphorically or literally.
At the heart of the problem is the fact that there is no ‘thing’ you can do – no milestone or marker you will get to – that will make you feel like not an impostor. It will always feel like you need to do something else – something more – to prove your worth. You will never feel enough if you’re basing your sense of worthiness on doing a thing.
Now, recognising this is one thing; breaking the pattern is quite another, and involves intention, self-reflection and challenging some serious limiting beliefs. In the case of my coaching work, this tends to involve half a dozen sessions of me asking my clients big, existential, hard-to-answer questions like ‘Where do you think that idea came from?’ and ‘What will life look like in five years if you don’t change anything?’. Everyone has a different reason for not feeling innately worthy enough, so I’m afraid me telling you to go off and meditate on affirmations or go for a walk or make a list of all your achievements isn’t going to cut it.
That said, there are a few things that have come up in conversations recently that might be useful, so let me share them here.
1. Believe me when I tell you how common it is: If the stats are right, a majority of your students, peers and colleagues feel the same way you do (or are experiencing a variation on the theme). Find the people and spaces where you can speak openly about how you’re feeling because if a whole pile of us is feeling the same way, we don’t need to suffer in silence. (Also: if we’re all feeling like we’re not supposed to be in a particular space, I’d suggest that says more about the space than it does us, but again, that’s for another day.)
2. Uncouple your identity from academia: As I’ve said elsewhere, being in the club of academia can feel like a pretty cool place to be. (Relatively, at least. The rest of the world does not see us as the cool kids, I’m afraid.) You’re celebrated, made to feel special, and frequently reminded about all of the privileges of academic life. But this is what makes feeling like an impostor in academia particularly pronounced: it ties your identity to your work. And, if this identity isn’t serving you anymore, the sooner you can rethink being an academic to being a person working in academia, the sooner you get to untangle your sense of where your worth actually lies. (Hint: It’s not in a line on your CV).
3. Recognise that you can’t outrun/outwork these feelings indefinitely: Working all hours of the day and night will get you to the next milestone, but it won’t make you feel any better/different/happier/more accomplished when you get there. If you don’t feel you’re worthy of good things just by being you, no number of publications, no amount of grant funding, and no level of academic seniority is going to change that. Being aware of this is a solid first step to reframing questions around your worth and purpose.
4. Your worth doesn’t come from the things you do but from you being you: That came out a bit more Dr Seuss than I meant it to, but the general point stands: that you are innately worthy just by being you. There is nothing you need to do or be to earn that worth. You matter, without the dissertation or the monograph, the academic role, the office, or the title.
Ultimately, breaking the cycle of impostor syndrome requires recognising – really truly knowing – that your worth isn’t measured by your academic achievements. It’s inherent in who you are, and no title, publication, or accolade can ever take it away.