Imposter Syndrome and the Darkest Lies We Tell Ourselves

Imposter syndrome doesn’t just live in boardrooms and academic halls. It seeps into the darkest corners of our minds, whispering that we don’t belong, that our pain isn’t real enough, that we don’t even have the right to suffer. It tells us that our struggles aren’t valid, that our voice isn’t worthy, that we should stay small and silent. I know because I’ve been there.

Imposter syndrome is the persistent belief that we are not enough, that we don’t deserve our accomplishments, or even our own pain. It convinces us that we are frauds—unworthy of success, love, or recognition. It’s not just about careers or achievements; it infiltrates every part of our being, including our struggles with mental health.

Yesterday, I read a post from a young woman grieving the loss of her boyfriend to suicide. She said something that struck me: She didn’t think he knew how much he was loved. That’s a sentiment I’ve heard many times before, but it’s not always true.

I know what it’s like to feel the weight of suicidal thoughts. And it was never about questioning whether I was loved. I knew, without a doubt, that I was. It was about something far more insidious: the belief that my existence was a burden to those who loved me. That I was too much. That my pain was too much. That the people who cared about me would be better off without the weight of my struggles.

That’s the kind of lie depression tells you. It’s relentless, convincing, and suffocating.

I was lucky. Lucky enough to realize that those who love me would rather walk beside and support me as I carry my burden than grieve my absence. Lucky enough to crawl out of that dark place. But even now, as I write this, I feel that old familiar voice creeping in: Wait. I have no right to talk about being suicidal when I never actually hurt myself. Wait. I have no right to think I’m a value to my colleagues and peers, even though I’ve been in the industry for over ten years. Wait. I have no right to feel proud of leading a successful project. Wait. I have no right… I have no right…

This is classic behavior of someone who has survived abuse. The conditioning that tells us our voices don’t matter, that our experiences aren’t valid, that we should just stay small, silent, and unseen. Abuse—especially emotional and psychological—chips away at your sense of self until you no longer trust your own instincts. You start to second-guess your worth, your intelligence, your very existence. That’s why imposter syndrome hits so deeply for survivors. It's not just insecurity—it's learned self-doubt, reinforced by the people and systems that were supposed to protect us.

But I’m learning. I’m learning that my voice does matter. That my experiences are real. That someone, somewhere, might need to hear this story.

To anyone out there who has felt like a burden, who has questioned their own pain, who has thought, maybe they’d be better off without me—you are not alone. You are loved, yes, but more than that, you are wanted. You are needed. Your feelings are valid. And your story, no matter how unfinished, is worth telling.

With all my love and pain, 

-The Not So Common Gal