It was 1962 when John Steinbeck, honored as one of the most influential American authors of his time, won the Nobel Prize for Literature. It was his novel, The Grapes of Wrath, which won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, and his works, Cannery Row and Of Mice and Men were praised for their significant influence on social injustice, the plight of migrant workers, and the human condition following the Great Depression. It was his famous words “I am not a writer. I have been fooling myself and other people” that paved the way for every person’s greatest foe; a shadow that lurks behind every round of applause, every achievement, and every tipping moment that bridges success and failure. This is the familiar story of a man whose words changed the world and yet could not convince himself he deserved the space he occupied.

Imposter syndrome is “the persistent inability to believe that one’s success is deserved or has been illegitimately achieved as a result of one’s own efforts or skills.” It is the relentless voice that whispers inadequacy, incompetence, and oftentimes, fraudulence.

Throughout high school, I thought “imposter syndrome” would remain in my adolescent years, that once university began, I would be able to live freely, escape the constant voices telling me I was not good enough, that I was a fraud, an imposter. And so I counted the days until graduation, longing for a life where I would no longer ridicule myself and all I “claimed” to have achieved. I thought it would all go away, the ache that would settle in between the recognition and applause. The fear that haunted my every move, pushing me into alert mode when no danger was visible. The guilt that consumed the medals that hung on my neck. The question that repeated endlessly as I worked with those I knew were leagues ahead of me. I deluded myself into believing that the comfort of adulthood would fill in all the inadequate gaps and silence the deafening voice of doubt, convinced that my older self would possess the missing pieces and have it all figured out.

Unbeknownst to my teenage self, imposter syndrome is not something you just outgrow. It follows you. The plague of fraudulence followed me into university. The classrooms, which once felt small and safe, turned into lecture halls, where my opinions felt stupid and my words embarrassingly ignorant. The voice I grew to be confident in suddenly felt too frail, quiet, and insignificant. After all, what right did I have to speak against those who could communicate in a thousand tongues? What value would I bring to the table? If I could not even reach the top of my average public school, how could I even dare to make a difference in a university that has cultivated prodigies far beyond my intellectual abilities?

In these moments, we accept the lies imposter syndrome feeds us; we do not question its authority, nor do we consider the possibility that it is not just us feeling and thinking this way. When we focus so much on feelings, we often forget that in most cases, feelings are not truthful. Imposter syndrome is not evidence of your inadequacy; it is not proof you are being self-aware. It is an emotion. A lie we tell ourselves with absolute conviction. The truth is, everyone thinks they are an imposter: the people you admire, the prodigies, the ubiquitous students in every SIG, the intimidating voices that mimic Shakespeare’s vocabulary — even the ones who seem born for excellence.

We are all imposters. Not in the way our successes are not well deserved or handled by luck. But because we are constantly pretending. Pretending to be naturally educated. Pretending to be confident. Pretending to be the versions of ourselves that others believe in, yet we cannot believe in ourselves. Maybe then, the fear we feel is not that others will expose us, but that one day, the world will see us the way we see ourselves. We fail to recognize that our greatest foes are our reflections. The ones who keep track of every mistake and stumble are our own diaries. The harsh critics of our writing come from the same hands that wrote them. The truth is that when the world sees us through rose-colored glasses, we should stop insisting on seeing ourselves in black and white. And if there is no cure for imposter syndrome, perhaps the solution lies in knowing we all carry it.