Before every lecture I give, I scan the audience from my space on the stage. It’s almost always made up of accomplished professionals. Some are directors, engineers, managers, and executives. Most hold bachelor’s or master’s degrees and have years of experience in their fields. Also, almost all of them are white.
I have a ritual. I take one deep breath and fix my clothes for the umpteenth time. I rehearse my opening line and approach the podium. Looking out at the sea of bodies standing and waiting to hear me talk, I wonder: Am I supposed to be here? Giving a lecture to people that are way more successful than I am? Is this a joke? Or have I just lucked out?
This is a small window into what I, as a Black man in corporate America, regularly experience: imposter syndrome.
The idea of imposter syndrome was coined during a study of high-achieving women in the 1970s. It describes someone who often fosters feelings of doubt and questions whether they’re deserving of their achievements. People who experience it tend to believe that what they’ve earned was awarded to them by accident, chance, or luck. Between 25% to 30% of high achievers feel imposter syndrome, and nearly 70% of adults have imposter thoughts once in their lifetime. It can be debilitating, and according to one report by Tuoro University, “it is typically caused by cyclical societal norms and expectations.”
While imposter syndrome may impact anyone, for Black people, it can be even more damaging. In a country that has subjugated African Americans since we were brought over in chains, our mental health and self-worth has never not been assaulted. In grade school, Black student’s work and behavior is harshly scrutinized and repeatedly stamped not good enough. From a young age, many of us are taught to believe our achievements pale in comparison to our white peers. Our seniors tell us (and the research reiterates): “You have to work twice as hard to get half of what they have.” As we graduate to the workforce and fail to see ourselves represented in so many industries, how can we not believe it? How can we not ask: Do I really belong here?
Despite all this, I’ve managed to accomplish a lot. I’m a two-time published author, a three-time Tedx speaker, and an artist who has written on politics, mass incarceration, and race at-length. I’ve lectured at schools and universities around the world. Tech companies have hosted my workshops. And yet, I often feel like a fraud.
Imposter syndrome can take a toll on the physical health of Black Americans. Epidemiologist Sherman James coined the term “John Henryism” to describe what happens when we have to work so hard to overcome structural racism under stressful circumstances. The impact it has on our bodies can succumb us to illness, and even possible death. In my experience, the term describes what living with imposter syndrome feels like: fighting to prove to myself that I belong in spaces that many Black people don’t occupy, sometimes to my own mental and physical detriment, all because society tells me that I don’t belong.
I’ve had imposter syndrome for as long as I can remember. Initially, I thought it was because I didn’t attend a prestigious school or have experience working at a large company, but when I began to accumulate accolades throughout my career as a writer and a speaker, I still felt small. I continued to view my work as “Not good enough,” and sometimes, not suitable at all. Even when Fortune 500 companies began extending invitations to me to speak, I would think, “Why me?” Afterwards, I would spend hours scrutinizing my performance and myself.
Neha Sampat, founder of BelongLab, an organization focused on creating a culture of belonging for all employees, believes that for racialized people, imposter syndrome is a form of internalized bias. “It’s a form of harm that’s been inflicted on those who are marginalized,” she told me. “When you’ve grown up with people telling you explicitly or implicitly that you don’t belong or questioning your worth, at some point you can — not necessarily will — have that voice of doubt burrow into your brain. It becomes the voice that says: ‘Who do I think I am?’”
A former attorney, Sampat gives workshops and keynotes on the topic. She says the best way to battle imposter syndrome is to set realistic goals and address imposter feelings as they show up. “We’re acculturated to try and outrun our feelings of self-doubt, but what we should do is stop, turn around, and face them.”
Sampat’s words recall some good, timeless advice from writer James Baldwin: “Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.” Many African Americans in the corporate world are starting to do the work. The DEI sector is growing. Group discussions among professionals are being held. More organizations are calling attention to mental health resources that offer services specifically designed for Black people.
Jewel Love, CEO of Black Executive Men, is just one example. His organization counsels Black men to help them overcome the challenges they face in corporate America, build confidence, and find inner peace. “While these men may feel comfortable in executing a task, they may be viewed as incapable,” he said. “There’s a certain racial element of this being attached to their thinking in being viewed as competent or incompetent. This is where having a coach or therapist that they can speak with regularly and validate their experiences is important.”
What’s in progress now is only the start. We need to keep doing this work to truly level the playing field.
For me, imposters syndrome is a battle that I still fight. Through a life of racism and discrimination, inherited from those who fought for centuries before me, my doubts have been born and will take time to erase. I say with honestly that, at times, it’s crippling. But I also have a desire to be great. I’m owed that opportunity. I’m learning to deal with these feelings in a more constructive way.
When I sense imposter syndrome creeping up, I do as Sampat said. I address it. I remind myself: I’ve earned my accomplishments because I’m competent and talented — not because I’m lucky. I’ve ascended through my career due to my intelligence and skillset — not because of chance. When I hear the voice in my head saying, “You don’t belong here.” I now say, “You are LeRon Barton,” I know what that means because I worked hard to get here. I’m not a fraud.
