Imposter syndrome
as Intergenerational Trauma & Wound
I am perpetually fascinated by the topic of imposter syndrome—the idea that you are simply not good enough or cut out for the job that you are doing.
I am interested in imposter syndrome because I am curious about people’s behavior. I am forever fascinated by the ways in which mediocre white males so often, too often, have the direct opposite of imposter syndrome—overblown sense of self, ego, intelligence.
In life, all too often, the older that I get, the more I feel that the most intelligent and most capable people are the ones who have humility and imposter syndrome, for they are the ones aware of what they don’t know and are ever curious and more interested in learning more. Rather than bombastically pontificating all that they know…which is often rather limited because instead of learning more, they’re too busy talking out their asses about all that they learned 20 years ago. (So many politicians, educators, like this…)
I have a vested interest in imposter syndrome also, admittedly, because I fall into that condition (too) frequently. After twenty years education and experience, I still balk and blink in confusion and discomfort when people call me an expert. Despite a PhD. Despite a 14 page long CV.
My story isn’t original. It plagues a lot of BIPOC individuals, women, low-income individuals, among others.
Many first gen students and those who come from socioeconomically disadvantaged families and communities feel the lingering, ongoing effects of imposter syndrome.
And yet—
It wasn’t until recently, reading Dr. Buque’s book on breaking the cycle and intergenerational trauma did I start to reconsider that perhaps my deep rooted sense of imposter syndrome could perhaps be one of intergenerational trauma.
My mother did her best to build me up with self esteem and self worth, that both she did not have and that was never given to her as a child. Sometimes in ways that almost seemed silly and over the top for this kiddo.
I recall once there were songs and chants where participation was encouraged to affirm or assert one’s worth. With a singing dinosaur named Pumsy.
My mother tried so hard to make sure I had the self worth she was never given and lost. I absorbed it, nevertheless. And I find myself wondering how it exists as intergenerational trauma - with wounded children and children of alcoholics, abused and abandoned ancestors of mine, who didn’t get the emotional support that they needed. They were told they weren’t good enough. I consider why these phrases may be reverberating in my DNA, though I was never told that from my mom—but I know she was. I am sure others ancestors of mine were as well.
It probably didn’t start with me.
But I found it easy enough to pick it up and continue, after my own trauma—
I consider now the ways in which I lost some of my self worth/self esteem along the way. In retrospect, I can say—definitively—that it was due to my trauma.
I know that I allowed myself to be emotionally and psychologically abused, lied to, manipulated, and cheated on by a narcissist, someone who truly was not in my league—his heart and character more than anything—but I did it because I was lost, scarred. I felt broken and shamed. And I put up with way too much for too long.
As my best friend said to me, “Danielle, anyone who knows you know that B—- wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t traumatized.”
I have known this. My traumatized background/CPTSD and PTSD led to feeling shame and broken.
My best friend told me recently, it’s hard to believe that you doubt yourself and don’t think yourself capable. But I do. I have. (Part of my wounds and scars of the shame-ridden cloud that is a frequent byproduct of PTSD.)
And yet, yet—
Never did I consider that part of my emotional inheritance and intergenerational wounds and trauma could be a large part of why my imposter syndrome runs deep and feels stronger than it—rationally- has any right to be.
Those who write on intergenerational trauma urge to consider the ways in which how we struggle and where we struggle is not necessarily (only) related to us. In other words, it’s not only personal, Danielle’s personality, lived/embodied experiences, and trauma of her lifetime/within her lifetime.
We need reminders of this, as Americans, in this hyperindividualistic culture and society that we live in. And because many of us non-BIPOC folx/western folks don’t always have the same strong roots/ties to our ancestors and lineage. Over years of immigrating or from enslavement of ancestors or colonialism and American genocide, we’ve lost the roots. The ties.
We would do better to get them back.
To see ourselves as connected to our families, generations, cultures, before.
Oh, the stories those ancestors may [have been] able to tell us about who we are, why we are doing what we’re doing and our problem areas, where we’re struggling. If only we have preserved them.
I have so many questions I wish I could ask my grandparents, great-grandparents and great-grandparents.
Questions that I’ll never know the answers to. However, the hope in the intergenerational trauma work seems to be that—
Even if we don’t ever know, there is still value in speculation and considering our position in a line of many who have come before us…reflecting on the bits and pieces of what we do know form our family tree.
In essence, the bringing awareness to it, holding space for it and acknowledging it, seems to be an instrumental part of the healing.
It makes sense. It’s centering, grounding. And ultimately, it’s humbling. Because again, you’re not positioning yourself as the star center of it all.
Move over, ego—this all didn’t start with you.
I also appreciate and choose to believe that I am also offering my ancestors, grandparents, parents, those who have walked on, comfort and solace in doing intergenerational healing work that they themselves never would/could, had the resources to do so.
I believe them at peace, but I also believe that as my kin, my blood relatives, they care to know that their descendants are healing in ways that they were never able to. For next generations.
Even though my line is finished with me, my influence, is not finished in the world. My relationships. I may end up with a partner that has children themselves. I heal for the relationships that I have with others, so I don’t hurt more people, in any relationship that I have with them, which is worth considering even for those of us without biological children.
Also, and what I realize now—
Most importantly—
MOST importantly: I heal for me.
Over the last several months of reflection and therapy and healing, I understand more and more the ways in which I was wounded/imprinted as a very young child, even before cognition memories/recollections that I can recall.
I also realize that I was directly responding to the emotional wounds and trauma of my parents.
I also now reflect on the ways in which my parents were also imprinted, scarred. They were their own wounded children.
And, of course, it begs the questions—what was it like for my parents, grandparents?
My stories are relegated to anecdotes I’ve heard on Great-Grandpa Ben who was a binge drinker and alcoholic, etc. There are so many stories there. Lost ones.
Part of being the cycle breaker is just to…imagine, consider, speculate. To even, just—
Go there.
Reflection, insights, humility and empathy. Holding space for the wounds inflicted on you by adults who were nothing more than wounded inner children themselves.
Breaking the cycle takes work, as Dr. Mariel Buque affirms.
And yet, how worth it—to heal, to reparent yourself, to no longer be bitter or the victim, but to take responsibility for being different, healthier, than those who came before you.
It’s a heavy task. But I am enjoying the process, seeing the difference. Reaping the benefits.
There is a peace and calm that radiates throughout this process, even when it’s very hard.
That’s how we know we’re healing.
It is so worth it.