Why Imposter Syndrome Might Be the Only Honest Response
The myth of the confident creative
I used to think there were two types of creatives in the world.
The confident ones: the people who breezed into writing workshops or design studios with their tote bags full of perfect ideas, quoting Rilke before their second coffee.
And then… the rest of us.
The ones sweating through our T-shirts, clutching half-baked drafts, hoping no one would notice the panic attack brewing beneath our carefully neutral expressions.
The confident ones, I assumed, were the real deal. The rest of us were frauds praying not to be found out.
At least that’s what I told myself the night my first big client asked me to speak on a panel about creativity and confidence: two words that felt about as compatible to me as “peaceful” and “airport.”
But let me back up.
The Invitation I Almost Deleted
It came by email. The subject line read: We’d love for you to speak.
I was convinced it was a mistake.
I read it three times, searching for the part where they realized they meant to invite someone else; someone who didn’t have fifteen abandoned Google Docs titled new essay attempt #6.
The panel theme? How to Create With Confidence.
I laughed so hard my coffee nearly launched out my nose.
Me? Speak about confidence?
That’s like asking a pyromaniac to lead a fire safety seminar.
The Dirty Secret No One Tells You About Creatives
I almost said no.
But then I thought about something I’d started noticing in conversations with other writers, artists, and entrepreneurs:
The people doing the most interesting work, the ones whose ideas made you sit up a little straighter, rarely claimed to feel confident.
They felt… haunted. Obsessed. Occasionally unhinged.
But confident? Not exactly.
If anything, the performance of confidence seemed inversely proportional to the depth of the work.
The loudest people in the room? Often the shallowest thinkers.
The ones nervously picking at the label on their water bottle? Usually the ones worth listening to.
This realization cracked something open in me.
Maybe imposter syndrome wasn’t a sign I was failing as a creative.
Maybe it was proof I was actually telling the truth.
The Panel Disaster (That Saved Me)
Fast forward two months.
I’m onstage under lights hot enough to bake sourdough, sitting between two designers with matching black turtlenecks and the kind of jawlines that suggested they’d never eaten nachos over the sink at midnight.
They speak in perfectly polished soundbites about believing in your vision and silencing the inner critic.
When it’s my turn, the moderator smiles and asks, “So, how do you stay confident in your creative work?”
My mouth goes dry.
I think about lying. About cobbling together some fake TED Talk wisdom involving morning routines and gratitude journals.
Instead, I hear myself saying:
“Oh, I don’t. I feel like a fraud most of the time.”
The audience laughs the way people laugh when they’re not sure if you’re joking.
I press on.
“Honestly, I think imposter syndrome might be the only honest response to creativity. I mean… you’re making something out of nothing and asking the world to care. That’s terrifying. If you’re too confident about it, maybe you’re not paying attention.”
Silence.
Then a woman in the second row starts clapping.
By the end, half the room is nodding like I’ve just confessed the thing they’ve been secretly feeling for years.
Why Confidence Is Overrated
Here’s what I realized on that stage:
Confidence is a terrible prerequisite for creativity.
It makes you cautious. Predictable. It keeps you inside the lines because you’re busy protecting your identity as “a confident person who knows what they’re doing.”
But the best creative work?
It lives on the edges of uncertainty. It asks dumb questions. It risks being laughed at. It stumbles around in the dark, whispering, Is this anything?
Imposter syndrome, annoying as it feels, keeps you honest.
It reminds you that you’re not entitled to anyone’s attention just because you made something.
You have to earn it — not with perfection, but with presence. With work that bleeds a little.
The Neuroscience of Feeling Like a Fraud
Because I’m a nerd, I later learned there’s actual science behind this.
Neuroscientists talk about something called the Dunning-Kruger effect: the cognitive bias where people with low ability overestimate their competence, while highly skilled people tend to underestimate theirs.
Translation?
If you’re constantly questioning whether your work is any good, it might be because you actually know enough to recognize when it isn’t.
Beginners brim with false confidence because they can’t see the complexity yet.
Experts stare into the abyss of everything they don’t know.
So maybe feeling like a fraud isn’t proof you’re faking it.
Maybe it’s proof you care enough to tell the truth about what you don’t know.
The Day I Stopped Waiting to Feel Ready
After that panel, something shifted.
Not dramatically, I didn’t wake up the next day suddenly oozing confidence like those people on Instagram who film themselves journaling on white couches.
But I stopped waiting to feel ready before making things.
I started writing essays knowing full well they might be weird or messy or ignored.
I launched a newsletter even though my inner critic screamed that no one wanted to hear from me.
I stopped introducing myself as a “new” writer, like I needed a disclaimer in case someone asked to see my work and hated it.
Because here’s the thing:
Confidence is a lagging indicator.
It shows up after you do the thing, not before.
You can’t think your way into it. You have to earn it by surviving the discomfort of making stuff while feeling like an amateur.
What I Tell Creatives Now
When coaching other writers and entrepreneurs, I often hear:
“I just need to get over this imposter syndrome before I start.”
No.
You start because of it.
Because it means you’re awake to the stakes. Because it keeps you from becoming the kind of arrogant bore who thinks everything they make is brilliant.
Confidence might feel nice, but curiosity will take you further.
Humility will take you deeper.
The best work doesn’t come from people convinced of their own genius.
It comes from people willing to risk being wrong in public.
The Only Honest Response
I used to think the goal was to eradicate imposter syndrome, to finally feel like one of those confident creatives who stride through the world certain of their brilliance.
Now I think confidence is overrated.
Give me the messy, doubtful, neurotic artist over the polished guru any day.
At least they’re telling the truth about what it feels like to make things in a world that might shrug and scroll past.
Maybe it’s proof you’re paying attention.
Maybe it’s the only honest response to the audacity of making art at all.
PS: My writing is powered by coffee in the morning and tea in the afternoon. To keep the words flowing, consider contributing to my caffeine fund.
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