The Herd(51)

It’s a term we hear a lot these days, and it seems to perfectly suit that secret, shameful feeling many of us experience. But it’s nothing new; Impostor Syndrome actually came from a scientific paper published by two female psychologists in 1978. They theorized, based on their own anecdotal research, that young women were vulnerable to “impostor phenomenon,” or feeling like an “intellectual phony.” The researchers observed that, despite “outstanding academic and professional accomplishments,” many women think they’re really not too bright and that they’ve fooled anyone who thinks otherwise.

They published the study, and the news went…nowhere. That’s because follow-up studies couldn’t link impostor phenomenon with gender or, specifically, with high-achieving women. And in 1993, one of the original researchers retracted her theory, admitting that the “syndrome” they’d originally identified actually applied to—wait for it—80 percent of the population. Old, young, male, female, anything in-between—almost all of us have these feelings.

And that should’ve been the end of it: Whoops, sorry, #notathing. But no. The term took on a life of its own—you’ve almost definitely heard a friend invoke it after nabbing a promotion, and maybe you’ve used it yourself. I have a huge problem with this debunked pop psychology term: It implies that occasionally doubting yourself is a pathology, when really, it’s just a part of the human experience. (Uh, maybe we should be worrying about the weirdos who don’t occasionally wonder if they’re as great as others seem to think they are?)

Feeling like you don’t know what the F you’re doing shouldn’t trigger shame. It means you’re challenging yourself—stretching, learning, and growing. And that’s something to be proud of.


This article was adapted from Bradley’s presentation at the Herd on April 9.





CHAPTER 14





Hana


FRIDAY, DECEMBER 20, 9:08 P.M.

I couldn’t stop shaking.

Someone had given me a blanket, and at first I thought vaguely that it must have been from the paramedics, the ones who magically produce them to wrap around shivering children during an action movie’s denouement. Then I realized: No paramedics had arrived, because Eleanor was clearly dead. Instead, medical examiners bustled by, different uniforms, same stern looks. And then I realized I was rubbing my fingers over the thick knit of this particular blanket, swipes of gray and black, and concluded that it was probably something someone had grabbed from Eleanor’s office in the ensuing pandemonium.

Eleanor was dead.

It kept grabbing at my chest, an echo of the pain, the way a burn on your skin stings over and over again. Last week, I would’ve given anything to have my answers, to just know. Now I wanted to climb back into that uncertainty, when Eleanor was maybe, possibly, probably still alive.

It’d crossed my mind that she might be dead, of course. Killed in some tragic accident orchestrated by the Fates. Spinning their yarns, tying off Eleanor’s with a crisp knot like whomever knitted this blanket. That’d been one of my favorite classes in school, Psychological Theory of Folklore and Mythology. Early, elaborate attempts at understanding human behavior.

But who could make sense of this? I pictured her coat, the crescent of blood black against the collar. And when I got closer, the jagged line against her white neck where a scarf should be.

Katie slung her arm around me and briskly rubbed my back.

“Is it cold?” I asked her. “They should shut the door to the stairwell.”

“It’s not cold,” she said, leaning more of her body into me. “I think you’re in shock.”

“I’m not in shock.” My teeth chattered. “I’m just cold.”

A police officer approached. He was young, his face round and clean-shaven. My eyes floated to the gun on his hip. He kept addressing Mikki and Katie instead of me, and the two of them probably assumed it was because I was shaken and shaking, but I wasn’t so sure. They don’t know what it’s like to be the one cops eye suspiciously, their tone just one degree off.

“When we’re done here, I’ll need all of you to come to the station to make a quick statement,” he said.

“How much longer will it be?” Mikki called out. She was slumped on a blue sofa.

“Maybe an hour?”

Mikki’s lip popped into a pout. “Okay.”

I felt Katie looking at me. She turned back to the officer. “I don’t think Hana should be forced to stay here,” she said. “There’s a deli right on the corner. Could we wait down there?”

He hesitated, and she gestured toward me. “I’m worried about my sister. Sitting here isn’t helping. I mean, we’re obviously not a flight risk.”

Not a flight risk. Unlike Eleanor, a week ago. Had she really intended to leave, or was that a weird cover-up orchestrated by her killer? Or had she been trying to escape because she knew she was in danger? Someone killed Eleanor—my jaw took off clacking again and I wrapped the throw tighter around my shoulders.

“Let me check.” He clomped away, shoulders hunched, moving like an awkward teenage boy.

A little sob escaped from Mikki. Sad, that’s how I was supposed to feel, right? Or maybe afraid, freaked out by the horror show directly above our heads. Instead I felt…numb, maybe. Removed. Up on the roof, I’d felt fear as I crept toward what I first mistook for a forgotten boot, and now I could recall the jagged panic that’d gripped me when I spotted a second, but then my memory closed in around just one more sight—the stiff skin of a mannequin, a dark half-moon at the top of her coat, brownish in the roof’s sallow light. Next thing I knew, I was on my knees in the sunroom with Mikki and Katie staring at me. Like an audience, like theatergoers looking up at me onstage.