A fleeting unveiling provides temporary relief
The imposter dream played to me my first night here at Banff. There I was, mingling with the elite, the rich, the famous. Everyone was dressed in black tuxedos, gowns, silk, cashmere, chunky jewelry laden with gold, diamonds, pearls and other precious stones. The venue: a Georgian mansion. Grand furnishings, airy rooms, rich Persian rugs.
I wondered how I’d got there. It wasn’t my kind of crowd and I didn’t feel 100 per cent comfortable. But everyone seemed to accept me.
When it was time to go out for dinner, no-one knew how to get there, or if there were even enough vehicles. So I took charge and orchestrated everyone to needed rides and in process heard someone remark, “There's that Erin, organizing everyone as usual.” Was it a compliment? I couldn't tell.
Dinner was, as to be expected, spectacular. It was held in a large stone house. White linen, candelabras, crystal glasses. Laughter, wine and song. Scintillating conversations about politics, the arts and the latest fashions.
The elegant evening came to an end and it was time to head back.
As we were leaving, though, a ruckus started somewhere in the back of the house.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” one mystified dinner guest reported, tapping a Gitanes out of a slim gold case. He cupped his hand around a matching lighter and and bent his head as he lit the cigarette. “I think there’s some kind of problem with the kitchen maids,” he said, after raising his head and turning his mouth to exhale.
That’s when I felt relief well up. The kitchen staff. That’s where I belonged. My place was with them, not with the guests. And off I went. The Scullion back to the scullery.
I relate the dream to someone I meet in line for a coffee. He laughs and says he knows the imposter feeling and gives me his card to contact him for a later chat.
When I pull it out to email him, I scan the ridiculously long–and I mean long–string of credentials after his name. Right. Imposter syndrome? Really?
No, not really, he tells me later. “I was just kidding.” (Was he kidding then, or is he “kidding” now? A kind man, though possibly an imposter, but I don't think so.)
We talk about leadership, character, the samurai, his career, my writing, university life, the perils of revealing an unconventional past, the Banff Centre and the resources it offers.
“You belong here,” he says as we part, promising to keep in touch. “You’re not an imposter.”
Deep down, I am unconvinced, and the butterflies flutter briefly back in.
It is now Day 5, and I am holding the butterflies at bay. Of course I belong here, I tell myself. Why wouldn't I?
Fellow Imposter Syndrome sufferers, take note: We are worthy. Keep massaging those childhood scars. They will never heal completely, but there's nothing wrong with temporary relief.
The imposter dream played to me my first night here at Banff. There I was, mingling with the elite, the rich, the famous. Everyone was dressed in black tuxedos, gowns, silk, cashmere, chunky jewelry laden with gold, diamonds, pearls and other precious stones. The venue: a Georgian mansion. Grand furnishings, airy rooms, rich Persian rugs.
I wondered how I’d got there. It wasn’t my kind of crowd and I didn’t feel 100 per cent comfortable. But everyone seemed to accept me.
When it was time to go out for dinner, no-one knew how to get there, or if there were even enough vehicles. So I took charge and orchestrated everyone to needed rides and in process heard someone remark, “There's that Erin, organizing everyone as usual.” Was it a compliment? I couldn't tell.
Dinner was, as to be expected, spectacular. It was held in a large stone house. White linen, candelabras, crystal glasses. Laughter, wine and song. Scintillating conversations about politics, the arts and the latest fashions.
The elegant evening came to an end and it was time to head back.
As we were leaving, though, a ruckus started somewhere in the back of the house.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” one mystified dinner guest reported, tapping a Gitanes out of a slim gold case. He cupped his hand around a matching lighter and and bent his head as he lit the cigarette. “I think there’s some kind of problem with the kitchen maids,” he said, after raising his head and turning his mouth to exhale.
That’s when I felt relief well up. The kitchen staff. That’s where I belonged. My place was with them, not with the guests. And off I went. The Scullion back to the scullery.
I relate the dream to someone I meet in line for a coffee. He laughs and says he knows the imposter feeling and gives me his card to contact him for a later chat.
When I pull it out to email him, I scan the ridiculously long–and I mean long–string of credentials after his name. Right. Imposter syndrome? Really?
No, not really, he tells me later. “I was just kidding.” (Was he kidding then, or is he “kidding” now? A kind man, though possibly an imposter, but I don't think so.)
We talk about leadership, character, the samurai, his career, my writing, university life, the perils of revealing an unconventional past, the Banff Centre and the resources it offers.
“You belong here,” he says as we part, promising to keep in touch. “You’re not an imposter.”
Deep down, I am unconvinced, and the butterflies flutter briefly back in.
It is now Day 5, and I am holding the butterflies at bay. Of course I belong here, I tell myself. Why wouldn't I?
Fellow Imposter Syndrome sufferers, take note: We are worthy. Keep massaging those childhood scars. They will never heal completely, but there's nothing wrong with temporary relief.