"I sat in my car for a solid ten minutes before the interview, heart thudding like I'd downed three espresso shots in a row. My task that day? Convince a panel of historians that I was qualified to archive decades of Alabama’s civil rights history, despite feeling like someone had accidentally dropped me into the wrong timeline. Surely there had been a mix-up. The grown-up with all the answers? She was running late, and I had shown up instead."

This is how my impostor syndrome liked to greet me—equal parts theatrical and inconveniently timed. It whispered that I wasn’t enough, that everyone else had somehow cracked a code I didn’t even know existed, and sooner or later, I'd be found out. I know what you’re thinking: We all feel like impostors sometimes. But when you keep leaving mental Post-it Notes with “Please double-check this…just in case,” that’s a special kind of exhausting. Yet, here’s the spoiler alert I wish I could’ve handed Version-Panicking-In-Her-Car-Me: Self-doubt doesn’t mean you’re unqualified. It means you’re human.

So, let’s talk about that journey—how I went from mousey archivist with an existential crisis to someone who (mostly) feels like she owns her space. If you’re sitting there nodding along or side-eyeing your latest bout of “Do they even know I’m under-qualified?” vibes, this one’s for you.

Step 1: Question the Narrator—Even If She’s You

One of the best things my dad taught me, while riveting me with his homegrown Montgomery ghost stories, was that every narrator has an agenda. And when the ghost was me—waving around self-doubt like chains in the attic—I realized I needed to examine the story I was telling myself.

Is it the world saying you’re untrained, or is it that you’ve convinced yourself every room requires a 4.0 GPA in Confidence? Did you flub one presentation three years ago and decide that’s your permanent track record? For me, my internal monologue acted like a particularly sassy courtroom stenographer: “And yet again, she misunderstands archival coding—what amateur fumbles await next?”

So here’s what I started doing: documenting wins, no matter how small. Ran the meeting successfully? Noted it in a journal. Nailed part of a tough project? I’d high-five myself in the mirror. Your inner narrator is a drama queen. Give her some uplifting material to work with, and she just might rewrite her next act.

Step 2: Ditch the Highlight Reel for the Bloopers

Ever scroll Instagram only to emerge slightly nauseous from all the polished “I’m living my best life!” posts? Add a LinkedIn success montage into that (ugh), and the comparison spiral becomes downright Olympic.

Here’s where I found relief: Bloopers are real; highlight reels are not. Every “overnight success”—whether it’s in love, work, or mastering your grandmother’s biscuit recipe—comes with hours of haphazard process. When I interviewed a local librarian for my civil rights research, she laughed mid-story to admit that her job’s biggest skill requirement wasn’t expertise—sometimes, it was bravery enough to fail in service of learning. Mess-ups are proof you’re trying. Think of them as badges, not your cue to hide in the break room.

For every panel presentation where I crushed it, there were three where I felt like I’d mispronounced 70% of Alabama. But you know what? That, too, became part of how I grew familiar with being in the room. I learned when to laugh at myself graciously and move on.

Step 3: Practice Before You Preach

There’s this old country saying: “If you can bluff your way through a barn dance, you can bluff your way through anything.” But honestly? Bluffing only gets you halfway. What actually gave me confidence was overpreparing.

I’d be the one re-reading speeches into my phone, quizzing myself on obscure footnotes in a historical manuscript, Googling “weirdest panel interview questions” more than once (just in case). By the time the spotlight aimed my way, I wasn’t just ready; I was over ready. The magic? That translated into moments where I could actually breathe instead of visibly sweating through my shirt.

Now, this isn’t to say you need to memorize everything or pull all-nighters. But prepping—whether for a work milestone or a tough conversation with a partner—turns down the volume on impostor syndrome. You rehearse stepping into confidence the same way you practice a guitar chord: over and over until it feels natural.

Step 4: Define Your Wins Without the ‘What-Ifs’

Here’s something embarrassingly honest: I spent my early career chasing what I thought others expected of me. Did I sound authoritative enough? Was my résumé correctly sprinkled with those buzzwords hiring managers love? It was like I was building a monument to everyone else’s checklist, forgetting that my own voice mattered.

Ask yourself this: What does success personally mean—without any social pressure or unrealistic Pinterest-board version of life? For me, it wasn’t becoming a powerhouse historian or immediately landing a book deal. It was something quieter: building connections through storytelling, one life at a time.

Having an answer to your version of success keeps you rooted—even when you second-guess its validity in a world of louder benchmarks.

Step 5: Let Others In

Now, this is where I trip up sometimes—okay, a lot. Asking for support felt like admitting failure back in the day. But let me underscore something: A good friend (or mentor, or therapist!) could be the flashlight your confidence needs when things get a little shadowy.

When I first started adjuncting college courses, I leaned heavily on a fellow professor who’d been around the block. She’d send me encouraging emails on the days I looked too pale at our shared coffee kiosk. Seeing someone else’s belief in my ability to teach when I still wrestled with impostor syndrome? That was priceless.

If you’re struggling to own something about yourself, lean into the folks who remind you you’re capable—and borrow their confidence until yours recalibrates.

Step 6: Own the Pivot Moments

Ultimately, confidence creeps in during the pivots—those small moments where you decide to lean toward vulnerability instead of retreating. For some, it’s putting yourself out there in love after a messy breakup. For others, it’s raising a hand in a meeting even if you’re only 95% sure you’ve got the answer. Nothing’s more badass than showing up despite your nerves whispering otherwise.

When I finally started calling myself “a writer,” it wasn’t because I’d just signed a publishing contract or nailed an op-ed. It was because I stopped waiting to win permission from the world to honor what I had already been doing.

Guess what? You don’t need permission either—to lead a discussion, admit you’re still learning, ask the crush out, or take up ballroom dancing after 40.

The Epilogue of Expertise

Here’s the part of the story I’d never have believed sitting in my car before that interview: The people I pitched myself to back then weren’t judging me half as hard as I thought. They were just hoping I’d come prepared and show I cared about the work—which I absolutely did, coffee-fueled heart jitters and all.

So, when impostor syndrome rears its tired little head (and spoiler: it sometimes still does), I remind myself of this: Expertise looks a lot less like a perfect resume and a lot more like showing up, putting in the work, and yes, even failing enthusiastically. Give yourself permission to grow into your space—it’s yours anyway.

You’re not faking it. You’re becoming. And honestly, that’s the best story arc of all.