There’s a particular kind of ache that tends to arrive just before we do something that matters. It’s quiet at first. A pause. A wobble. An itch that seems harmless, even reasonable:
You’re not ready. Someone else would do this better. Are you sure you belong here?
We’ve come to call it imposter syndrome, but that phrase feels too clean, too clinical for what it actually is. Because this isn’t just a passing moment of doubt. It’s a sensation that moves through the body, that rearranges breath, that tells you to stay quiet when you’re meant to speak.
It can show up anywhere, any time.
For me, it showed up this past week—again and again—as I moved through unfamiliar spaces abroad. I’m writing this now from somewhere in the sky, leaving the UK and heading back to the States, carrying not just my suitcase but the residue of seven days spent in stretching rooms: new people, new ideas, new offices, a new culture. And at almost every turn, there it was—that ache. That old invitation to hide, to downplay, to back away from the risk of being wrong, or powerful, or - well - seen.
It didn’t arrive once. It arrived several times a day. It showed up in conversations, in moments of silence, in subtle micro-decisions: Do I speak? Do I ask? Do I share the thought or is it dumb?
Each time, it offered me the familiar escape route:
Tuck yourself back in. Stay small.
Don’t risk it. Being seen. Being dumb. Being hurt.
Don’t let them see the parts of you that don’t yet feel fully formed.
And so what IS that? Is it just our meanness coming to mess with us?
Or is there something perhaps more merciful afoot?
My sense is that we step into the new idea, the new room, the new version of ourselves physically—but some part of us is still tethered to the old pattern, the old identity, the old story. The soul, wise and unhurried, hasn’t quite caught up. And so we feel friction—not because we’re imposters, but because we’re not yet fully inhabiting where we are.
Instead of kicking ourselves for the feelings that rise, or shaming the stories that resurface, maybe what’s needed is a moment of recognition: something is shifting. I am not where I was. And I don’t need to rush into who I’m becoming.
I can take a moment to bless this threshold.
Our outer lives so often move faster than our inner lives can integrate. And when we don’t give the soul time to arrive, we feel foreign inside our own becoming.
The remedy is not performance or perfection, but presence.
To pause. To gather.
To remember that we were never meant to arrive fully formed.
We were meant to grow into it—in its time.
To feel like an imposter, then, is not to be in the wrong place. It is often to be in the right place, but without yet having rooted deeply enough to remember your belonging there.
I like thinking about it like that.
It’s not imposter syndrome.
It’s a moment of soul-dislocation.
Doesn’t that feel more merciful? You are not an imposter. You are simply in transit—between the story you’ve outgrown and the one that is still being written through you.
Stay. Let your soul catch up.
3 Ways to Help Yourself Help Your Self
Because this whole phenomenon is so deeply rooted, I find I need tools that work from multiple angles: on, around, and in. From the very mundane and practical (tool #1) to a full-blown spiritual chiropractic adjustment (tool #3)—here we go:
1. ON.
If this soul-dislocation is something that works on us from the Inside-Out then lets meet it first, from the Outside-In. Now this may seem superficial, but I see it more as “directional.” When I step into a new room, a new role, or a space where old voices tend to rise, I’ve started dressing for the version of me I want to meet. Not to impress. Not to perform. But to align.
Growing up, every time my dad would put on his white lab coat to go to the hospital, he’d look at me and say, “Vestis virum facit.” Then he’d pause, waiting for me to translate the line with him and we’d say together: “Clothes make the (wo)man.”
To be honest, it was a total “Daaaaaad” moment at the time. But like all good Dad-isms, I think it’s been quietly working on me ever since.
Which is funny, because I’ve never even been someone who “likes clothes.” I don’t like to shop, don’t love spending money on outfits, and I definitely don’t have that gene that can whip up a lewk.
But with the help of a few key girlfriends (thank you Brooke & Jaycee), I’m starting to see—it’s not about the clothes. It’s about the feeling. The energy. The intention. It’s about dressing in the direction of your evolution.
Colors that make you feel powerful. Textures that make you feel quality. Even a hidden totem in your pocket or a secret necklace no one else sees - something that reminds you: I are here on purpose. And I’m here making choices.
Its not about how they react to how you present, its about how you feel walking into a room. And sometimes, the act of getting dressed is the beginning of crossing the threshold—from the old into the new. Might seem obvious or simple to some, but for me its part of the practice of inhabiting, working from the outside-in.
2. AROUND.
The first tool was about putting something on.
This one is about what you put around you—surrounding yourself with the energy that’s pulling you forward.
For me? That’s music.
When the rhythm of old inner voices starts to become hypnotic, interrupt it. Literally. Put on a different beat.
I’ve got a playlist (which I’ll be sharing for paid subscribers here) full of songs that break the rhythm of smallness and say, “Not today, honey.” Songs that remind me who I am when I’m not wrapped up in protecting myself. Songs that stir something awake in my chest. Songs that help me walk into rooms with just a little more fire.
Give yourself a new beat to work with: when you’re getting ready, when you’re commuting, or duck into a bathroom stall and reset your vibe before you walk into the new moment.
It’s called “GET AFTER IT” - save it, download it, keep it close. Let it remind you, you already belong, you’re just catching up to what you already know:
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