The Terms and Conditions of Being Perceived
...imposter syndrome is a room problem, not a you problem.
It’s a strange thing, to walk into a room knowing you’re good, and still scan for proof that you’re not.
You read tone. Posture. You shift your voice half an octave without noticing. You say, “I’m thrilled to be here,” but you really mean, “Please don’t clock how hard I worked to get in.”
You over-thank. Underclaim. Answer like you’re still trying to get hired, not like you already are.
And then you replay one sentence on loop, wondering if it sounded like ambition or ego.
It doesn’t happen in every room. Only the ones with something at stake… reputation, perception, invitation. The rooms you spent years trying to get into, only to find that entry doesn’t come with ease. Sometimes it comes with shape-shifting.
Once doubt calcifies, this gets called imposter syndrome.
But that’s not quite it, at least for me.
It doesn’t live in the sentence or the scene or the draft. It doesn’t speak when I’m inside the work, focused, certain, submerged.
It speaks when I surface.
When I start scanning for reception instead of resonance.
When I stop asking if the work is good, and start asking if I am good.
That’s not impostor syndrome.
That’s translation. That’s performance. That’s adaptation so smooth it starts to feel like survival.
And maybe that’s the tell.
Maybe I don’t feel like a fraud. Maybe I just feel edited.
It’s easy to forget that most systems weren’t built with you in mind. Not maliciously. Just… structurally. The tone. The tempo. The code no one told you you’d need to know. A rhythm. A shorthand you’re supposed to already know.
And if you don’t?
You start mimicking.
You say, “Does that make sense?” even when it obviously does. You preface a strong idea with a softener. You use exclamation marks like armor. You develop a skill for sounding agreeable in real time and frustrated in hindsight.
It’s not that you don’t belong. It’s that you were never taught the language.
And so the work becomes translation—of yourself, to yourself. A quiet calculus: how much do I need to soften in order to be taken seriously? How many disclaimers can I add before my certainty disappears?
Eventually, the editing becomes part of the process. Not the writing, not the thinking. The self-presentation. The effort it takes just to sound like someone who’s allowed to take up space.
What follows is harder to admit: the more fluent you become in the culture, the more disconnected you feel from yourself. And that’s what gets called imposter syndrome.
Because that’s the other part no one names.
The quiet, grinding math of proving you’ve earned the space you’re already standing in.
Not just once, but constantly.
Like presence is something that can be revoked at any moment, if you don’t perform it well enough.
As if your credentials expire the minute you hesitate.
As if the room wasn’t designed for someone like you—and you’re just borrowing it, politely.
Not because you’re unqualified.
But because you’re fluent in a version of yourself you don’t fully recognize.
Imposter syndrome doesn’t feel like a diagnosis.
It feels like walking into a room and forgetting how to hold your face.
It feels like knowing you’re good, and still double-checking your voice, your posture, your tone—just in case.
It feels like watching your words land and thinking, Did that sound like me?
And if not: Did anyone notice?
Sometimes it feels like silence after you speak.
Sometimes it feels like applause, and still, you don’t believe it.
That’s the real erosion.
Not the doubt in your ability, but the quiet question behind every performance of confidence: Was that the real me? Did I even show up? Or did I just send the version of me most likely to be approved?
And once you start wondering that, you don’t trust the outcome.
You trust your ability to adapt.
You trust your training.
But you don’t trust the room. And you don’t trust yourself in it.
You don’t feel like a fraud. You feel like an approximation, curated for maximum appeal, minimum risk. One that can be applauded, quoted, even admired—without ever actually being known.
Because if you only belong when you’re edited, do you belong at all?
I used to think the fear was about being seen. That visibility was the risk. But it’s clearer now, that fear was never just about the gaze itself. It was about what the gaze demanded. Not vulnerability. Performance. The pressure to show up not as you are, but as something legible, admirable, useful. And once you learn how to do that, once you get good at being perceived, you start to wonder if anyone’s ever actually seen you at all.
The exhaustion of being perceived too precisely is its own category.
When someone compliments you for the exact thing you were performing, it doesn’t feel good. It feels like getting caught.
Like, Oh no. That’s the version they liked. Which means that’s the version I’m now expected to maintain.
It’s a strange prison. Approval as evidence of misalignment. Success as proof that the mask worked.
And yes, sometimes, you show up as the version you think is “right” and no one notices you at all. Which is a different kind of spiral.
It’s not the fear of faking it. It’s the ache of having made it, and not recognizing the voice that got you through the door.
It doesn’t mean you’re a fraud.
It just means the version that earned the invitation doesn’t always feel like the one who deserves to stay.
It’s not just about showing up as someone else. It’s about the fear that even if you do show up as yourself, it still won’t be enough.
Because imposter syndrome doesn’t always announce itself with panic. Sometimes it slips in quietly, disguised as gratitude. As humility. As the reflex to explain how lucky you are, how grateful, how aware you are of the opportunity—as if acknowledgment might be mistaken for entitlement.
And so you overcorrect. You try to earn it again. And again. As if entry wasn’t enough. As if permission is something that can be revoked if you get too comfortable.
You start to fear stillness. Not because you’re restless, but because rest implies arrival. And arrival feels dangerous when your belonging still feels conditional.
It’s not that you don’t belong. It’s that you still don’t trust the room to believe it. Not because you’re ungrateful. But because the message was never ‘you earned this.’ It was ‘don’t lose it.’
And so you move through rooms like a guest. Careful not to leave fingerprints. Careful not to ask for too much. Careful not to let the door hit you on the way out.
But at a certain point, the math stops working.
Maybe the problem isn’t the feeling. Maybe it’s the expectation that we should feel anything else.
Of course we scan the room, we check the mirror, we brace—because we were taught to.
And maybe that’s the real diagnosis. Not fraudulence. Not self-doubt.
Just the fatigue of having to make yourself legible before you’re allowed to be seen.
I personally don’t need a name for that.
I just need to know it’s real.
And that it doesn’t mean I’m wrong to be here.
It means the room still needs work.
File Under: How to Sound Like You Deserve to Stay.
The Ash Files—Where life’s unexpected moments get filed away—sometimes neatly, sometimes under “figure it out later.” From writer/creator ASH, expect weekly musings, honest stories, and a reminder that no one has life entirely figured out [least of all me].✨
This article is painfully insightful. You have a gift for conveying the hidden junk we all carry inside and secretly hope nobody will ever see. Thank you for all the work and honesty. I truly appreciate you.
"You don’t feel like a fraud. You feel like an approximation, curated for maximum appeal, minimum risk. One that can be applauded, quoted, even admired—without ever actually being known." Ouch!