This post will not cure your Impostor Syndrome

I signed up for the How to Survive Your PhD MOOC put together by Dr. Inger Mewburn. And although the live chat happens at the same time as my weekly team meeting, I've been following along as best I can. I'll start by getting this out of the way: sign up if you haven't already. The discussion, comment and support on the MOOC comment boards (and also via #survivePhD15) have helped me a lot over the last few jittery weeks.

Anyway, every week, I write a massive comment that will get buried. And I know that the concept of imposter syndrome has been written about endlessly. And I know that it's unlikely I can add anything new to the conversation apart from my own personal observations.

With all those caveats in mind, here are my own personal observations. 

1) Everyone feels like an impostor and this universality is quite heartening.

Module 3 of the MOOC was about confidence. Part of the courseware was the video by Sally Le Page that I've include at the top of this post. In the comments I read in response to this video, there were plenty of people with funding and acclaim who feel like impostors; there were plenty of people (non-funded, part-time) who feel like impostors. There were impostors straight out of their MA; there were impostors coming back to study.

While it's disheartening to know that so many brilliant, driven people feel this way, I do find it somewhat comforting. The fact that it happens to so many people makes me think that it's something inside of us (the sort of people who want to do PhDs) to compare ourselves to others, and to not always be complimentary in the comparisons we draw. If this sounds negative, it isn't: it means that to an extent, we have the ability to control how we view ourselves and our achievements. Perhaps I'm clutching at straws here, but if impostor syndrome isn't something inherent in the PhD process, then we might collectively have some control over it.

Of course, controlling how you feel about yourself isn't easy, or often conscious. Which brings me to my second observation.

2) I don't feel like an impostor. But only because I did for a long time.

The only impostor syndrome experience I can speak of personally is the experience of being working class at an elite university. Unlike Sally, I felt the impostor throughout most of my undergrad. Not just in terms of what I'd studied (for instance when I was the only person in a group of 6 who hadn't studied Latin or German), but how I spoke, what my family did for a living, whether I knew the right cutlery to use in hall and whether I used the term 'serviette' or 'paper napkin.' (That last example was pointed out in a seminar by a well-meaning tutor.)

Sometimes, I glibly say I used up all my impostor syndrome when I was an undergrad or I wouldn’t have survived. But, when I think more closely, I realise that I only ‘got over’ my impostor syndrome once I’d worked myself close to a nervous breakdown and realised there was still no way for me to definitively tell how 'good' I was. My essays weren't given numerical marks. My coursework grades were released at the same time my final results were. The two obvious, simple yardsticks weren't available to me. So, I gave up trying to measure my progress and accepted that all I could do was keep trying, and keep experimenting. And, keep feeling grateful for feeling stupid: it meant I was still learning.

I hadn't really thought about this experience until last week. And I don't quite know what to make of it. I'm grateful that I'm already familiar with a course of study that doesn't really have many goalposts. But equally, I know that this isn't a universal solution, or even a healthy one. And moreover, having this resilience going into the PhD is a privilege of the undergraduate education I was lucky enough to have.

So where does this leave those of us who feel like impostors? (Hence the title: this post will leave you no better off if you're suffering at the moment. Sorry.) But I do hope that it might prompt a conversation: do any other PhD students not feel like impostors?

Diploma, Person, Power.

Yesterday, Jonathan Hsy asked:

How many of you academics display credentials (diploma, award/s, etc.) in your office? I feel weird about it #academia #humility

— Jonathan Hsy (@JonathanHsy) August 18, 2015

Rather than paraphrasing the whole conversation, I'll let you read it because it's fascinating. The main strands of the conversation have been collected (along with Jonathan's summary) here. What I want to pick up on is one particular area that was mentioned by a few people: whether displaying your certificates undermines your humility. Or worse, if it's a sign of arrogance.

As a woman, I get very edgy when the term 'arrogance' is used. When applied to women, it seems to be very easily confused with any of the following, in both professional and personal contexts:

• Rebutting a point in a debate;
• Being quiet;
• Being outspoken about your opinions; 
• Failing to vocalise a dislike of your appearance; or
• Acknowledging your achievements.

Although all of these uses frustrate me every time I encounter them, it's the latter point that concerns me here. For anyone, a PhD is a huge achievement. It's challenging (both intellectually and personally); it's difficult (both financially and emotionally).

But - and there is a but - the same outcome (a completed PhD) is a different achievement to each and every person. And for those of us who are outside of the demographic in whom academic authority is invested, this achievement means something different.

As Jonathan rightly suggests, for people who don't t embody academic authority (because it's still seen as invested in certain types of people: read white men, mainly) the display of certificates is a means of displaying that authority. It's a visual rebuttal to those who might question your worth. It's also a visual reminder of the people who shaped you.

I should disclose here: I'm a second generation immigrant. Neither of my parents completed their secondary education. No one in my family had ever graduated from university before me. And then I went and got into a prestigious university, and graduated.

In my undergraduate graduation photo, I am smiling awkwardly in the way you do if you're being instructed to hold a fake roll, and turn your body and tip your head and SMILE, LOVE! But my parents? They are there, in their best clothes they bought especially for the day, grinning from ear to ear with pride. I had never seen them look like that. 

If that photo didn't make me well up every time I look at it, I would probably put it in my office. But when I look at my certificate - when I see that achievement typed out in words alongside my [foreign as hell] name - I get a faint echo of what my parents must have felt that day. I feel grateful; I feel humbled; I feel proud of myself; I feel bemused that it ever happened. 

I don't feel arrogant. I don't think many of us do.