By Pepita Mwanga
SS note: Pepita was the inspiration for my recent blog about imposter syndrome. I’m honoured that she’s agreed to write more about her experiences, to respond to my thoughts and (best of all) share the poem that prompted such a deep reaction from me.
As a black African immigrant woman living in Scotland, the symptoms of imposter syndrome can be triggered even at the grocery store, let alone a professional setting at a university. My hair, my blackness, and my name introduce me even before I speak. I feel like I constantly have to prove that I have a right to be here, to speak and to be heard. It is like walking around with “50 pounds of self-doubt on my chest, so that breathing can count as a workout” (Pepita Mwanga, Imposter Syndrome, 2024)
An excerpt from Imposter Syndrome, 2024
The symptoms:
Feelings of displacement and misplacement,
Like my skin is the wrong size and I don’t fit in.
So, I size down and tuck my personality behind my ears;
Hold my audacity in as I shed a tear;
A daily existential crisis that leaves you lifeless,
Ruthless and relentless despite the evidence,
Despite the fact that I am here.
That I keep standing here;
Yet fall for the same false narrative,
That I shouldn’t be here,
Like the designated space I occupy in every room is always overdue for rent.
I have always learnt to walk, speak, and act despite the self-doubt. Like Sara, I too found a way to celebrate it. In its own way the feelings of being an imposter are not an enemy because they are my brain’s way of trying to protect me from a failed system. If I do not feel like I belong it is probably because I do not – there was never any designated space for me to occupy because the room was not designed to accommodate me even though I am allowed in. So, feeling like I am forcing my way in, is not imagined. However, our very presence there changes the system molecular structure over time.
An excerpt from Imposter Syndrome, 2024
So, we can sit and rot in the comfort,
Where the grass is always a shade of green short.
Or we can dance through the discomfort,
Take a mud bath in the dirt,
And water the grass with our blood, our sweat, and our tears.
For the full poem, please visit www.pepitamwanga.com or https://www.instagram.com/apoetpepa/
SS: thank you Pepita for the opportunity to share your work and for the powerful thoughts which enrich this blog’s topic of boundaries to leadership. If you’ve had thoughts about any of my blogs or want to write a dual blog with me, get in touch.
