Draft Four: I am here. Do you see me?

Imposter syndrome and other demons in an age of totalism.

Dec 10, 2023

FYI: I realize the end of the year is near. Which might be why I’m trying to cram too many ideas in each letter. I’ve not decided if and how I should continue writing these in 2024, but your replies and ideas have been helping. Thank you for understanding my late replies and caring for the work.

Last week, I wrote about the price we pay for making choices.

Sooner or later, we focus, even if for a short time: some paths, not others; some cities; some countries; some relationships; some jobs; some ways of using our energy and time. I say “some” because, while I know we can’t have it all (hence the price), we often do strive for more than “one”.

As proof, I present to you a few paragraphs I cut from last’s week letter before sending it, because I thought them too self-indulgent:

“This is the first year in many where I have not published a story that I know will last.
Those stories took days and nights from me and the reporters I worked with. They made me sleep less, they made my skin itch, they made me eat like crap, and they made me the proudest and happiest I had been. I’ve always paid that price, knowingly and happily. I know there’ll be a time the price will be too high, but it hasn’t come yet.
I had to pay a very steep literal price for a renovation this year. I also had to replace my lost income from having a job. So I took on projects, too many, too varied, too stressful. I ended up with more stakeholders than I had when I ran a newsroom, more competing needs, more changes in the deliverables than I could control. I ended up going through terrible weeks when I dropped my runs and ate pretzels on the way to whatever I was doing.
Sure, there’s a structural issue at fault: the kind of work I do, the kind of work many creatives do, is at the border of precariousness. We do too much, because too few places can afford to pay enough for us to do less. But there’s also a me-thing.”

I cut this part because I couldn’t tell where it landed on the border between being vulnerable and being a pity party. I dread the latter, but I’ll venture forth this week and risk it.

What I wanted to say was this: I’ve always worked hard, and I’ve always had trouble saying “no”, especially when it comes to being of service to others. Working hard – often in excess – has been a remedy for my imposter syndrome. And, of course, a way of belonging. And I don’t think I’ve been articulate enough about it (outside of therapy). Certainly not enough for others to see me.

The imposter syndrome showed up big time this week.

I was in Budapest for a conference dedicated to media in Central and Eastern Europe. More than 150 journos from newsrooms in Romania, Bulgaria, Hungary, Poland, and others, plus a few dozen experts and donors gathered to figure out how we can survive in this climate, keep or build our audiences, and hopefully make some money from them. (The firing, on Wednesday, of Romania’s most well-known journalist by his Swiss bosses at Ringier underscored our shitty predicament.)

I was scheduled for a panel on news product thinking, and innovation, and also booked as an expert for newsrooms to have 1-on-1s with. Truth be told, the jargon of news product always scared the shit out of me, just like the language of digital strategy and audience engagement, and all other non-editorial conversations we’re having in my business. I understand it, I can speak it, but I sometimes feel like the kid sitting in on adults having a conversation. (Caveat: If we in the independent media scene don’t start being conversant in all, plus learn how to manage modern workplaces, we’ll die. Full stop.)

Here’s two other truths.

First: even after years of studying and speaking abroad, I can’t shake off the voice that says, “you’re from Romania, what can you actually contribute to the conversation?” It’s a loud voice every time I step into a room in the US, or Finland, or Italy, or wherever. Sure, it’s partly my own perennial personal insecurity, but there’s a cultural conditioning element to it. Western Europeans – think the Dutch, the French, the British, the Nordics etc. – rarely fail to remind you where you come from, and how you should appreciate the enlightenment they bring. The Americans care less about your Romanianess as long as you properly acknowledge their aid and investments.

Over the years I have learned that we, Romanians, do belong in many of those rooms. (Thankfully, Gen Z Romanians are freer). Sometimes we even have more relevant things to say. I am also less moved by representatives of big shot companies or donors pontificating why “Romania doesn’t make business sense, but please continue to plead your case, as we love being needed”.

But knowing something intellectually isn’t the same as knowing it emotionally. So I was still terrified I didn’t belong in Budapest.

Here’s the second truth: I was listed in the program and on the badge as the founding editor of DoR. But DoR isn’t active as a publication anymore. Rationally, I know why that choice made sense for the organizers: guests associate me with DoR (and that’s awesome), and it’ll make it easier for people to connect. Emotionally, it felt like I was an imposter using the name of my former employer to mask my irrelevance.

That DoR badge weighed heavy, especially after this year. You’d think at 42 you would have made peace with all the fears and insecurities. Maybe some of you have. I’m not there yet.

About 20 years ago I was in a car in California with a former boss. We were in a taxi going to a training he was supposed to deliver in a newsroom. I was the assistant that prepped the script, the slides, got the projector to work, and made sure paperwork was in order. Out of the blue – maybe because he was tired, maybe because of the wine we had at dinner the night before – he said something like: I still wonder whether one day they’ll know how much I’m faking it.

He was a brilliant thinker, a smart writer, an encouraging boss, and much more, I thought to myself. If he thinks he’s faking it, the rest of us are fucked.

I’m now around the age he was then, and boy do I know where he’s coming from.

I’ve decided to write about this for a few reasons: to reach any twentysomething that hopes one day experience will defeat this feeling. Maybe experience, kindness towards oneself, and therapy will alleviate it, make it go away for most of the time. But will it defeat it? I haven’t been able to, and I’ve stopped trying. I can live alongside the voices, and the unpleasant feelings their stir, because experienced has taught me to keep on going – usually nothing terrible happens.

But this is also for the older ones – my generation, let’s say. (Or for men – there is no stronger trigger of shame than being perceived as weak, right?) The pressure to hide our weak spots grows as we age. Our responsibilities grow, our salary grows, our title becomes fancier, our LinkedIn photo shows us wearing a shirt. Thus our childish insecurities have to be hidden. Don’t do it.

You don’t have to write a similar letter confessing they exist, you don’t even have to say much about what you’re worried about. Being vulnerable usually doesn’t mean spilling your guts; it’s enough to say, “I don’t know”. Or “this is hard”. Or “I’m working through this”.

It’s not going to be easy. On the contrary. If you’re in my part of the world, exposing a weak spot can prompt a hit – share an idea and yes, it might get stolen. Share a doubt and yes, someone can exploit it. Share a fear, and someone will turn it against you. Open up, and be ready for others to stay guarded, and keep playing power games.

Just this week, a journalist who I deeply admire for his calm and thoughtfulness, told me in Budapest their newsroom told my former students they have to unlearn what I taught them. My heart sank. (OK, fuck it, it still hurts.) He was slightly joking, but only slightly. I’ve heard other similar accounts, and the idea of former colleagues and students being picked on for having worked with me, pains me.

Which is to say: people aren’t scared of not showing themselves for nothing. And just wait until our super electoral year of 2024 rolls around. The question, in the long run, is whether allowing oneself to be seen shouldn’t actually be a price worth paying.

Without it, I’m afraid our chances for making progress together are slim.

What I’m often getting at in these letters is how tough it is to break out of loneliness.

And I’m not just talking about the loneliness of not belonging to society, or not having a tight knit family, or a close group of friends. Those are immensely important, and they are all heartbreakingly current issues. (Many medical experts have talked about a worldwide “loneliness crisis” or even a “loneliness epidemic”).

Next to them is also the loneliness that comes from not being seen, and this is one I’ve been struggling with for the past few years. I’ve recently read an essay called Loved, yet lonely, that brilliantly articulated the loneliness you feel even next to others, when they are not seeing you for who you have become, or are becoming. The author uses her study abroad experience in Italy to articulate this feeling of having changed without those close to her seeing it:

“In addition to developing new needs, I understood myself as having changed in other fundamental respects. While I knew my friends loved me and affirmed my unconditional value, I did not feel upon my return home that they were able to see and affirm my individuality. I was radically changed; in fact, I felt in certain respects totally unrecognisable even to those who knew me best.
After Italy, I inhabited a different, more nuanced perspective on the world; beauty, creativity and intellectual growth had become core values of mine; I had become a serious lover of poetry; I understood myself as a burgeoning philosopher. At the time, my closest friends were not able to see and affirm these parts of me, parts of me with which even relative strangers in my college courses were acquainted (though, of course, those acquaintances neither knew me nor were equipped to meet other of my needs which my friends had long met). When I returned home, I no longer felt truly seen by my friends.”

You don’t need to study abroad to feel this. You might simply change what you see as worthy of your time and attention. Maybe in your group of co-workers you were all in agreement that it’s best to have a stress-free, well-paying job, that can support your hobbies. Then, suddenly, you decide you want a job that makes a difference, one that comes with a higher price to pay.

Maybe you and your friends were always in agreement about how civic participation leads nowhere. Now, because you got involved in your building’s association, you start believing in grassroots change in other realms of life, too.

Maybe you and your friends loved going on and on about how “woke culture is ruining free speech”. Then, one day, one goes through something in their life, and understands that more kindness and care are not the same as censorship.

The relationships can remain. But loneliness can also creep in.

Part of what’s hard to articulate is the loneliness of change. Because change is not like a Polaroid picture. You don’t shake life for a few seconds, and suddenly get the answer. It’s more like developing old-school film – it takes time between capturing the moment and seeing the result. And some of that time is spent in a literal dark room.

I went to Budapest to be of use to others. It’s what gives me meaning. (Beware. This also becomes an Achilles heel when I start thinking that, if I can help, people will like me.)

Yet I didn’t want to be seen as an expert. If anything has changed about me in the past few years is that I’m not interested in that title, I’m not interested in having the last word, nor the power that comes with expertise (or with the perception of it). That’s a heavy armor to carry around, and I’ve been working for a while to put it down.

It’s not easy. People around you will often ask you to be the expert. Fake it! Or at least act like you have all the answers, as it’ll help them be less afraid. Some people avoid those of us with doubts – we probably make for bad protection from evil. (Shoutout to all young managers feeling this pressure).

Add to all this the imposter syndrome screaming: “you’re not an expert anyway”, and, when that doesn’t work, going this route: “by the way, you’ll starve if you’ll stop pretending to be an expert”.

This voice, what an asshole!

The most vulnerable thing one can do is ask to be seen for who they are at a certain point in time, because it requires understanding that particular point, and then expressing it.

Tuesday morning, before my panel, a Hungarian journalist who was among the organizers said he had a replacement badge. I told him the DoR badge was heavy and he understood – he had a similar issue. So he made me a new one – just my name, in shaky handwriting.

Quite the in-your-face metaphor that image, right?

It’s scary to wear this in front of a crowd of 100 journalists, but it’s more honest. “This is your expert”, that new badge said. “They have some expertise in innovation and building products from 13 years of trial, error and success, but these days their professional identity is shaky. It’s not like your newsrooms are more solid. And let’s not even start on your democracies.”

Back in Budapest, I started by asking the crowd to show a bit of itself.

Who among you is doing 3-4-5 jobs at once: editing, writing grants, managing, social media?

Who is sitting here going: “I'm hearing some great stuff – about implementing reader revenue strategies, starting newsletters and podcasts, integrating new roles” –, and wondering about who the hell will be doing this back in the newsroom?

Many raised their hands – we saw each other. I wasn’t there to tell them how to do it, just to share from experience. And I hadn’t come with jargon and tips, but with five simple questions about mission, values, operations and leadership, some of which we failed to address in time to save DoR.

“I didn’t fall asleep”, one participant told me at the end. Eastern European validation never fails to deliver.

Friday night I saw a show modeled on the live shows we used to put together with DoR.

The ethos of Oamenii Dreptății, put together by a group of dear friends in a leadership program for justice professionals, mirrored the ideas above: the importance of showing yourself, of trusting others with your story, of risking to connect, of imagining that someone in that audience needs to hear what you have to say to feel less alone.

Many stories they told were about choosing, and paying the price, and being afraid to follow a path, but persevering, nonetheless. One line spoke to me directly. It said: “It takes a lot of courage to be”.

We crave “totalism” in our lives today, says a psychoanalyst whose work over decades looked at the stories we tell, and our capacity to find “justification for the unimaginable”, but also “recover, and reconjure hope”. “There’s something in us as human beings which seeks fixity and definiteness and absoluteness. We’re vulnerable to totalism. But it’s most pronounced during times of stress and dislocation.”

This is definitely a time of stress and dislocation. Totalism sounds like a sexy antidote, but it’s actually a recipe for further disconnection and othering, going all the way to violence. If the way you view the world is the right one, then there is no space for my view – and we’ll fight to the death. The alternative is extending empathy. It’s seeing one another.

I’m of the hopeful kind, despite all external evidence to the contrary.

And although the argument against free will – that we are just byproducts of genes, environment, and interactions – has always resonated with me, I still lapse into storifying my life, and the course of my community, my country, and so on. In that better world I make up in my head, we’d trust people despite our fearful voices telling us not to. We’d show up even when our imposter syndrome is warning us that this is the day we’ll be exposed as frauds. We’d see those around us, faults and all, remembering that we all flourish when we’re seen, especially when we’re seen in the moments when we’re working up the courage to be.

SIDE DISHES:

I just read this piece on how we don’t allow Palestinians to exist in our mainstream discourse, and it touches on this idea of struggling to see beyond our point of view: “There is nothing complicated about asking for freedom. Palestinians deserve equal rights, equal access to resources, equal access to fair elections and so forth. If this makes you uneasy, then you must ask yourself why”.
This beautiful essay about running, getting faster, and becoming.
I’m linking to this separately, too – listen to this superb interview with Robert Sapolsky, a professor of biology and neurology at Stanford University, who makes a science-based case against free will. As the show description promises: “If he’s right, the moral and legal implications would be enormous. The way we think about success and failure, as well as blame and punishment, would have to change.”
This song I fell for this week. It’s called Never Been Better. Here’s the chorus: “I’ve never been worse / But I’ve never been better / And I’m in love with the person that I’m becoming / But I’m more insecure than ever / And the more I learn the less I know but it’s alright / Two different things can both be true at the same time.”