Load
The first week of my PhD program has been both exhilarating and terrifying. It is a whirlwind of new names, new responsibilities, and new expectations layered on top of one another, and in the middle of all of it I have been carrying one persistent, gnawing feeling: I do not belong here. I keep looking around the rooms and hallways and seeing brilliant people who seem to glide through conversations with confidence, who reference scholars I have barely read and theories I can only half-follow. I find myself shrinking into my chair, nodding as though I belong. Inside my head, there is a constant whisper that someone made a mistake in admitting me – that I am only here until the moment I am found out.
I have heard the term imposter syndrome more times than I can count, but living it is different from naming it. It is not just a clever phrase for insecurity. It is a full-bodied presence. For me, it manifests as my stomach tightening before I speak in class. My mind racing at night with the conviction that I am already behind due to my own ineptitude in my formative years. The relentless exhaustion of feigning competence when I am certain I am flailing. I watch others present themselves so effortlessly, and I wonder why I cannot quiet the noise long enough to believe that I might belong here too.
I am not blind to the irony. My whole life has been about carving out space where I was not supposed to belong. Transition was proof of that, surviving grief was proof of that, choosing to keep living when others wanted me to disappear was proof of that. Yet here I am, in a room where no one is actively trying to push me out, still doubting whether I deserve to be sitting in the chair I fought so hard to reach. That is the cruelest part of imposter syndrome. It convinces you that you have stolen something that you have spent countless years working towards to earn that spot.
That is why I am writing this. Not because I have a neat set of answers or clever advice, but because silence is the breeding ground of shame. Screw you Shame Wizard! Naming those fears aloud feels like an act of resistance. I do not want to carry this feeling in secret, and I do not want anyone else who reads this to believe that they are alone in it. The temptation is to pretend I am fine. I must present an image of capability. I must post only about the victories and none of the cracks. But I refuse to play into that illusion. Pretending only isolates further. I have lived through enough isolation already to know that honesty, even when it is raw and uncomfortable, is the only way forward.
When the weight of these feelings presses down, I remind myself of what I have already survived. I think about the years I spent piecing myself back together after being told in so many ways that who I am was not welcome. I think about the resilience it still takes to transition into a world that thrives on punishing differences. I think about the countless mornings when I had to convince myself to keep living. Compared to that, academia is not going to be the thing that breaks me. It might bend me. It might stretch me thin. But it will not erase me.
I earned my place here through persistence, through work, through a stubborn refusal to give up, and no amount of self-doubt can take that away from me.
Still, these feelings do not just vanish because I rationally know I belong. That is the thing about imposter syndrome; logic rarely dislodges it. What helps instead is connection. Remember that others are fighting the same battle behind their polished facades. Every time I talk to someone who admits to their own doubts, I feel less alone. Every time I remind myself that vulnerability is not weakness but proof of humanity, I find the courage to keep showing up. And I hope that by writing this, I might give someone else that same reminder.
Here is the truth – feeling like an imposter does not mean you are one. It means you care. It means you have stepped into something bigger than yourself. Your mind is scrambling to adjust. It means you are invested in doing well. That investment comes with the risk of feeling exposed. But those feelings do not cancel out your presence. They do not negate your worth. They are simply part of the process of growing into a new role.
So yes, I feel out of my depth. Yes, I feel like I do not belong. Yes, I am terrified of being found out. But I am here anyway, writing this anyway, refusing to let fear be the final word. My belonging is not up for debate. And neither is yours.
If you are reading this and you have felt the same tightening in your chest, the same doubt clawing at you – you are not alone, and you are not an imposter. We may never fully silence the voices of doubt, but together we can drown them out with something stronger. With honesty. With connection. With the reminder that we belong, even when we cannot quite believe it ourselves.
And that is the real work of this first week — not mastering every reading or dazzling in every seminar but simply learning to sit with discomfort and keep showing up. That is what I intend to do. To keep writing. To keep speaking. To keep choosing presence even when my body trembles with uncertainty. And, in the act of showing up, belonging will slowly start to feel like something I no longer have to fight so hard to believe in.