'I dont deserve to be here': One postgrad student's musings on imposter syndrome

by Kate McAnelly 

I made my way through my undergrad teacher training at the UOCE Southland campus, in Invercargill (New Zealand), feeling like someone was bound to tap me on the shoulder at any given moment and turf me out of college for being a fraud. I made it out the other side with degree in hand, yet the feelings of extreme inadequacy persisted despite good marks and praise for my practice. Who did I think I was, calling myself a teacher? 

 
I completed my PGDipTchg last year and these feelings ratcheted up a notch. Not only was I continuing to be plagued with a complete lack of self-belief in terms of my intelligence, I also felt like I had to prove myself as a new graduate teacher. I was in papers full of experienced teachers, and if they didn't 'find me out' for my fraudulent masquerading as a teacher, my learned lecturers surely would. I got the PGDipTchg with credit, but told myself my chances of getting into the MEd were now toast because I was such a dismal failure. When the message popped up in December last year telling me I had, in fact, been accepted into the MEd programme starting this year, I was confused. Surely there was some mistake? 

Those old familiar feelings of inadequacy ramped up even more this year and begun to mess with my ability to get a good night's sleep. I would see Master of Education under the heading qualification in progress, there in black and white, and not be able to understand or believe it. Why hadn't I been found out yet? I was being assigned brilliant supervisors to oversee my research, and I was upset that these people I admired hugely were going to be the ones to discover I was just an imposter. 

About a month ago, I was up in Dunedin at the main UOCE campus meeting with my supervisors and catching up with other lecturers I had during my PGDipTchg year. I had remained close with a number of the lecturers. I was discussing with one of these lecturers how my supervisor and I had just submitted an abstract to co-present at the Inclusion Summit at the University of Canterbury in July, and how terrified I was that we were probably going to be presenting to people whose work I'd referenced so assiduously, names anyone who's anyone working in the field of inclusive ECE will know well. While I was extremely grateful for my supervisor for agreeing to co-present with me, I thought they would have to carry the discussion because in that sort of forum, surely to goodness, I'd get rumbled for being a fake and be sent on my way. 

The lecturer listened carefully to the torrent of angst flowing from my mouth, and when a pause in the conversation came, said 'Kate, have you ever heard of something called imposter syndrome? I think you have it'. We discussed it and its prevalence in higher education amongst high achieving, highly successful people who can't accept they are knowledgeable and worthy of the success they've achieved by virtue of hard work. Our conversation gave me much to ponder in the days following. 

So what exactly is 'imposter syndrome'? It's a term coined by clinical psychologists Pauline Clance and Suzanne Imes in the 1970's to describe how successful, highly achieving people are unable to internalise their accomplishments, even when there's tons of evidence that they're doing well. Basically, for someone like me (and perhaps a few of you too), it's feeling like I'm not a competent, intelligent student or teacher, and that I'm just a big old fraud all round who is bound to be found out at any minute. There are three broad sub-categories in the manifestation of imposter syndrome - 

Feeling like a fraud – the thought that one doesn't deserve his or her professional or academic success, and that the people around them have somehow been duped into believing in their brilliance. There's often an underlying fear of being unmasked, found out or discovered to be an imposter, which causes a lot of anxiety. 

Attributing success to luck – the tendency to attribute one's success to luck or other external reasons, and not to their own abilities. People with imposter syndrome in academia might refer to a high mark for an assignment, or perhaps a well-received conference paper, as a 'fluke' or something they just got lucky in, a success they won't be able to repeat again. 

Discounting success – the tendency to discount and downplay success by saying things like 'it's not a big deal' or 'the assignment wasn't worth much', thinking you only got a good mark because the lecturer is an 'easy' marker, or having a hard time accepting compliments. 

Imposter syndrome isn't an all or nothing concept, in that you might be able to recognise some aspects of it in your own behaviour and demeanour, but not others. I see a lot of it in my own behaviour and demeanour. In the way I think I've somehow faked my academic competence and deceived the college into thinking I'm worthy of a place in the MEd programme. In the way I'm convinced I'll be revealed to be a nobody one day soon. In the way I often think of my good marks as being down to luck and not the hours of work I put into achieving them. In the way I've downplayed those good marks, especially because the lecturer concerned must surely need their eyes checked if they thought my work was of any merit! And especially in the way I have a complete inability to accept compliments on my achievements, brushing them off as I feel I don't really deserve them. 

However, I've discovered a number of ways to deal with these feelings of being an imposter as and when they crop up. Being aware of, and able to identify, those automatic thoughts and feelings like 'I'm an intellectual fraud' is a really useful first step. Questioning those automatic thoughts and feelings and trying to bring about some balance to the inferiority battle raging inside your head comes next, along with trying to understand, and I mean really understand, that you got your brilliant marks because you damn well earned them – not by chance, not because the lecturer was going easy on you – because you deserved them. But most importantly, seeking support from those around you who are on/have been on a similar journey to you, because a problem shared is a problem halved and who better to understand the sometimes dark complexities of the mind as you travel the postgrad road than those in the same boat, or those who have been there, done that, and got the t-shirt. 

And this is where we can all band together as a Postgrad whānau. Let us not feel so alone through suffering in silence.

Let's work hard and know our achievements are down to that hard work, not luck. 



Let's celebrate our successes and make sure we actually believe in them. 


Let's talk. 



[Images from Morguefile.co.nz]

Issues of consent and competency

by Keely Blanch

I started out meaning to write this post about researching in 'over-researched' fields, but as is often the case another idea popped up as I sat down to write. Consent, specifically issues of consent and competency to give that consent, by young people. At what age is a young person considered capable of giving consent for participation in research or other activities?

This thought was spurred by a story that has been in the media over the last few days regarding a young woman, in a metal cage, on the front of a 'monster truck' that was then driven through a wall of fire. It turns out that this young woman is only 13 years old, which raises questions regarding her ability to consent to what could be described as a calculated risk. 

There are differing understandings of young people's ability to consent in different contexts. The ways we understand children and childhood have changed within a research-based context. Recognising the rights of the child, young people are regarded as competent agents, capable of giving assent, and often consent, to participating in research. 

However the age where the line shifts from requiring parental consent and child assent, to requiring child consent and perhaps parental assent is blurry. For instance, at a recent conference I heard one researcher argue his ethics committee negated children's ability to consent under the age of 16, an age perhaps influenced by legalistic determinations of ability to consent to intercourse. On the other hand, some researchers argue we should consider the competency of young people rather than chronological age as a marker for providing consent. Researchers and ethics committees can vary in how they determine the competency of a young person to give consent. 

As I listened to the radio interview with the Monster Truck owner, I began to compare this situation to other contexts. How does this compare to children who perform in circuses? What if this was a movie set - would Sir Peter Jackson be allowed to use a 13 year old in a potentially dangerous stunt? Can this be compared to young people's rights to consent, or not, regarding medical procedures? I think, like many ethical decisions, it depends. It depends upon factors such as risk, harm, benefits and whether the young person can be deemed competent to understand how these situations will affect them, and how their bodies, thoughts, and words will be used by others.

If the Monster Truck stunt had been a research project, it would have had to go through an ethics committee who would have considered these factors. An ethics committee acts to protect the safety of research participants. The researcher and ethics committee would have considered the risk of harm versus the benefit to the young person. They would have insisted that everyone involved was fully informed and understood the ramifications. They would have wanted to see a plan to minimise risk, and they would have wanted an indication that the young person would gain some benefit from participating. 

Given that, at the time of writing, the only voice in the media regarding this stunt is that of the owner, we cannot really ascertain whether this young person was fully informed regarding risk. We are forced to accept the owner's assertion that she freely consented and wanted to participate at face value, and it seems the parents also consented to the stunts. 

However, I am still left pondering some points:

- from what I heard on the radio, apparently the stunt evolved from discussions over dinner between the owner and the young person's parents, who are old friends. Potentially, this could raise issues of coercion, and the ability to freely give consent.

- it is unclear whether either the young person and her parents have been involved with Monster truck stunts before, whether they were fully informed of potential risks, and whether they fully understood those risks. I return to the concept of the circus performers. One might assume that growing up in an environment and seeing the training required, and the impact of mistakes, may provide an experiential understanding of risks involved with performances. A quick google provided several media reports (here and here) that talk of the training and time required to learn stunts. Being told what to do over a few weeks is different to the intensive training that leads to an automatic reaction when/if something goes wrong. I'm left wondering if this young person received training on what to do if she caught fire, whether she had practice runs on the stunt, whether she practiced getting out of the cage, and whether there was an arranged signal for the driver if she wanted to call off the stunt at any point.

- What benefit did this young person receive from taking part? For instance, her father claims she wants to be a stuntwoman, and successfully completing the stunt may have boosted the young person's self-confidence, but in a commercial venture, could/should she have expected to be paid for her participation?

Of course, instances like this are not research. Such events are not dependent upon approval by an ethics committee. As such, consent, and the ability to give consent, becomes an issue for the law. We only have to look at the varying (socially-constructed) ages of consent (without additional parental consent) and/or competency for choices such as smoking (16), sex (16), driving (16), voting (18), marriage (18), joining the police force (18), and gun licence/ ownership (16) to see that judgments on competency and ability to consent to processes vary widely. 

Which raises some questions - should there be age related markers of competency to consent? Or should we consider other ways of assessing competency, and if so, how? And in research, which is more important - the competency or the chronological age of  participants?

[Do check out our resources page which has links to a couple of sites about researching with children.]

The journeys within the research journey: Making time for wellbeing

by Kim Brown

Some mornings it's easy to find inspiration to fuel my thinking.

My cycle journey to university presents many of the same features each day, experienced a little differently.

Loosing feeling in my hands and feet is not the most obvious contribution to a sense of wellbeing, but it sure helps me to appreciate my office once I get there.

Embracing the day needs more than a glorious sunrise; a good breakfast and a radiator to dry wet clothes have a part to play.

And some days, moving around on a bike is just tested to the limits

warm & dry inside, wet & loud outside - Covered @ForBarrStadium and Water of Leith #Dunedin #U20WorldCup pic.twitter.com/Y0yVo1f8aA

— Paul Le Comte (@five15design) June 3, 2015

Other times I just need to be alert to unanticipated things (like giant ducks) to energise my thinking about research.

Winding down and the journey home instills a sense of calm and wellbeing that leaves the research high and lows behind ...

even when it's blowing a gale (or maybe I'm just expending too much energy to think of anything else).

This photo blog is an illustration of the peace and freedom to think of other things that is as much a part of my research time as the obvious activities. Making time for my regular cycle journey to university is a "difference that makes a difference" (Bateson, 1972).

Do share photos of the things that contribute to your wellbeing along the research journey over on our Facebook page or Twitter (unfortunately it's not possible to put images in comments).

No sleeping on this job...

by Byron Sanders

“I went to the doctor the other day. You know the symptoms: Sniffly nose, dry throat, fifty shades of cough, and a pounding head like John Key is yanking on my ponytail. The consultation went smoothly and the doctor prescribed me run-of-the-mill meds. Yet, I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t standing for just your average, everyday prescription. This is my health and my body. Of course, I’m not a qualified doctor, and nor have I spent years training and even more practicing medicine... But I do know my body, and I deserve better…”


Now, before you start panicking that I might have some terrible disease, I want you to know that the above scenario is completely fictional. I don’t think I have stepped foot in a Doctor's Surgery in around 5 years and, knock on wood, I hope to keep it that way for many more.

You see, the real story goes like this…

I’m a teacher. I think I’m a reasonably good one. I normally teach 7 year old children – little darlings most of them. I began my work in education for all the clichéd reasons that one would expect to hear from teachers: “I want to make a difference”, “I enjoy helping children to achieve those ‘ah ha’ moments”, “children are fun to be around” “it’s a rewarding job” … Blah blah blah… The list seems never ending, just like the workload.

I had good intentions upon my entry into teacher training and to this day, those intentions stick with me. However, the sarcasm seems more pervasive these days. I guess that right about now you’re thinking – ‘this is all very well but what does a bad joke about Ponytail Gate, the teaching profession and doctors have in common’? Well, if teachers continue to be yanked, pulled apart and vilified in the media, someone’s going to need a doctor. Okay, so that sounded more sinister than it needed to!

But my point is this – teachers are professionals too.

The doctor in my scenario is a professional and doing exactly what hundreds, and possibly even thousands of doctors would have done had any patient with my symptoms been presented to them. They have dozens of patients to see that day and, for the most part, know that the treatment they are providing will have me right in no time. Of course, we all need to ensure we are getting the adequate care and attention from our medical professional, but I would hazard a guess that many people wouldn’t question their doctor’s every directive.

This, I would argue, is contrary to the experiences of many within the teaching profession: pulled apart by parents for not giving enough homework, giving too much homework, not teaching their children timetables… The list is never ending. Don’t even get me started on the tirade the government points at us every time the Minister steps in front of a microphone. 'Teacher hate' seems commonplace, but in my opinion, it’s unwarranted.

Recently, I have had the very rewarding and enlightening experience of taking 6 months out from my teaching career to complete some intensive postgraduate study. This has been an invaluable time to research, reflect and basically just regroup. The metaphorical dawn broke for me on April 25th (Pun intended, it was ANZAC Day dawn service). Just like many New Zealanders, I pulled myself from bed bright and early to pay my respects at our local cenotaph. Yet, the most eye-opening moment for me didn’t come from an inspiring speaker or the eerie last post. It came from the immense tiredness that I felt that morning. A feeling that was all too familiar and yet, was seemingly a distant memory. You see, ever since being on leave from my teaching position, I hadn’t felt that tiredness that had once seemed a daily reality. Don’t get me wrong, I still work hard. I’m at my office everyday around 8:00am, I read, I write, I attend all my lectures. I observe, I analyse, and I ensure that as many of my neurons as possible are earning their keep. Yet, despite the bags under my eyes (I am writing a thesis after all), I have not felt the overwhelming tiredness I once felt.

Teachers work hard for the benefit of children, your children. Harder than most people work and often to the detriment of their own lives, their own families and their own sanity. Teachers as professionals? You better believe it. The reason I woke up tired everyday of my career is because I have worked hard to ensure that the children in my class and my school are receiving the best education that I know how to give them. That requires me to do any number of tasks, unconstrained by working hours, job descriptions or Ministry Of Education directives.


When July rolls around and I make my transition back to the classroom, you better believe that I will be complaining my butt off about how tired I am. Everyday. But… it’s all worth the fun I’m going to have. The positive influence that I know I make and awesome learning that is going to occur. Teachers ought to be given the credit, where credit is due.

What do you think?

Seeing the signs - the switched-on analysis brain

by Keely Blanch


One of the perils of graduate education is that you become immersed in a cycle of questioning, dissecting and analysing information. As necessary and rewarding as this cycle may be to the thesis work, sometimes these ways of thinking creep into daily life. If you catch yourself pointing out the discursive construction of your partner's argument as you discuss household chores, or you randomly throw in a citation in a conversation with friends about social media, maybe it's time to take a break!

 

I realised I had 'analysis brain' a few weekends ago as I was driving back from a day of interviewing participants. Being a Sunday afternoon, the offerings on National radio were more entertainment than current affairs, but something must have caught my attention. Perhaps it was the mention of Facebook? Alerted, I tuned in to hear a play where the granddaughter is encouraging her grandfather to join Facebook (Red Devil by Colin Beardon). As I listened to the conversation, the back and forth between generations of the advantages and uses of technology, I could not help but start analysing the dialogue as if it were my interview data: an always connected younger generation, notions of belonging, surveillance, agency, acts of citizenship, counter discourses, revolution.....  It got to the point where I was wishing I could interview the fictional characters!

Sadly, or maybe that should be fortunately, this hasn't been a one-off occurrence. I've caught myself identifying themes in books, movies and tv offerings. Once I even had to pull over on my way to a meeting to write down a note about my own actions as an example of citizenship and/or anti-citizenship. As I become more aware of what I'm starting to see come out in my interviews, it seems like I see pointers to my themes everywhere. My analysis brain shapes how I look at my actions and the actions of those around me. 

Currently I'm immersed in transcribing. I'm actively looking for themes instead of tripping over them. It's a laborious yet exciting, and even somewhat nerve-wracking experience as I look to see what will emerge. Then comes the fun part of weaving the themes together to support my argument. With my analysis brain firmly switched on, somehow I think I'll be seeing themes around me for a bit longer yet.

 

Deep-fried tarantulas and other ‘delicacies’: Doing fieldwork in Cambodia

by Tracy Rogers

Chum reap suor!  
When I was asked to write something for the blog about my recent fieldtrip to Cambodia, I had no idea where to actually begin. My recently completed fieldtrip report for my supervisors runs 28 pages long - so clearly I could not use that for this blog post. But what do I write about when there is so much to reflect on after being in a cross-cultural context? 

I could write a totally non-academic blurb about the sights and sounds and smells that I became acutely aware of; just because they were so different from home. Like how I was unable to shut out the sounds of the hundreds of motorised scooters that filled the city air from dawn to dusk; or how the colour red seemed synonymous with the countryside as everything was tainted a rusty red from the dust and red soil of the unsealed roads.

'Strangeness’ is what really differentiates research conducted in a foreign cross-cultural context from research conducted in your own familiar environment. Whilst I often sought out familiar faces, accents, and food during my visit, I also thrived on being an outsider - discovering new tastes and experiences. As a visitor, my outsider identity gave me an opportunity to soak in my surroundings by drawing on all my senses. As a researcher though it afforded both advantages and disadvantages.

The ‘outsider’ advantage of conducting research is that I often took on a less powerful role when working with the study participants. I was the learner; the knowledge-deficit ‘other’ as my lack of local knowledge granted my participants the power to take control and teach me what they knew and had experienced.

The insider/outsider identity is a slippery one according to Tracey Skelton (2009)**. The researcher can move between the two binaries, or at times be both, or neither. I did not consciously negotiate the insider/outsider identity; although the presence of my interpreter/research assistant was a constant reminder that my lack of the local vernacular would always position me as an ‘outsider’ during my time in Cambodia.

I would not have been able to bridge the gap created by my ‘differentness’ if it weren’t for my interpreter/research assistant, Theary*. Theary* was crucial in me gaining access to the schools and participants, as well as providing me with cultural knowledge, and much needed companionship.

Just as a researcher can move between the insider/outsider identity, so too can an interpreter. An interpreter’s insider/outsider identity is based on her/his status within the community that is being researched. Theary was an insider in the community, yet her role as my research assistant and interpreter differentiated her from the other participants. Based on my early reflections, these differences did not appear to negatively affect the rapport that we managed to establish with the participants.

I think there are a few reasons why this may be the case. Firstly, Theary is an incredibly generous, friendly, and intelligent young woman, who was able to clearly explain the aims of my project to the participants. She was also able to talk to the participants in a non-threatening way so that they felt comfortable to ask questions and express their views. 

Theary also emphasised that I was interested in hearing what these young women had to say about their educational journey. As a result, the time and dedication that the participants put into each stage of the data collection process was quite remarkable.

 

The final reason I think...though I am not so sure how significant it is...is that instead of shying away from things (like I often do) I had decided to engage positively with everyone I met. I thought that if I could ask these young women to reveal their personal stories, then the least I could do was participate as fully as possible when invited. 

So when I was shown around a local school, I joined in a skipping rope game under the baking sun with school girls more than half my age. I attempted (quite unsuccessfully) to learn a traditional bamboo stick dance – much to the amusement of the audience and dancers. I cycled across the famous bumpy bamboo bridge and visited ancient temples guarded by troops of monkeys. I shared research experiences with other novice researchers from far flung countries. I swam with locals in a freshwater spring literally in the middle of nowhere. And I made life-long friends with my research assistant and ate lunch with Theary’s family in her remote rural home.

Lastly, on the last day, I also almost tasted the local delicacies of deep-fried tarantula (see the picture below!) and boiled embryonic duckling eggs. But by then, my outsider identity felt I had tried quite enough new experiences for one trip. So perhaps when I return, I may consider trying some more tastes, smells, sights, and experiences.

[All photos remain the property of the Author: Tracy Rogers]

* Not her real name. Theary is a Khmer name meaning helper or aide.

** Skelton, T. (2009). Cross-Cultural Research. In R. Kitchin & N. Thrift (Eds.), International encyclopedia of human geography. (pp. 398-403). Amsterdam: Elsevier Science.