Not a day passes without me looking at my children—at least once—and thinking, “How am I a mom?”
Obviously, I know how I’m a mom, but I am often flabbergasted by the enormous task I’ve been given of raising two small humans. From what I’ve heard from other moms, I think it’s pretty common to be told its time to leave the hospital after having a baby (especially a first baby), and think, “what?! The hospital is actually letting me leave with this delicate, fragile little baby?” No matter how much help you have from outside family, no matter how many prenatal classes you take, nothing can completely prepare you for the enormity of the task of having a precious little baby entirely and completely reliant on you for their every single need.
But for me, it’s sometimes felt like more than the normal shock to the system of acquiring this incredible responsibility and privilege. Growing up, I really did not enjoy playing house. I enjoyed playing school, bus driver, and hotel manager (weird, I know, but my sisters, cousins, and I were very into pretending we ran a vacation resort). In high school, I babysat for the money, not because I was particularly enthusiastic about spending my Saturday night with children, and I volunteered at my church’s VBS because all of my friends did. I always figured I’d get married and have kids of my own one day, but beyond sometimes musing about what I’d name these future children, becoming a mom was not high on my list of things I thought about.
When my husband and I got married, we knew we wanted children, and we were elated when we found out we were pregnant with our first daughter. And whether it was her traumatic birth and NICU stay, the fear of giving birth at the height of a global pandemic, or the underdiscussed but common phenomenon of delayed bonding, I did not feel an immediate connection with her. I felt an overwhelming protective instinct, but it wasn’t until two or three months after she was born that I felt a strong, emotional connection with her, like she was actually mine. I was fortunate enough to know that delayed bonding (especially in scary birth situations) is not uncommon, and that just because I did not feel an incredibly strong bond with her did not mean that I wasn’t bonded with her – it just meant that my feelings needed time to catch up with my reality.
When I was in the middle of those emotionally tumultuous postpartum months, it was often hard to not feel like a complete failure as a mom. My body had developed complications in late pregnancy, and therefore, she’d had to come early via C-section, be hooked up to machines and fed intravenously in the NICU. And while I felt a protective instinct from the moment she was born that I have never, ever experienced at any other point in my life (other than, you know, when my second baby was born), the fact that I didn’t feel an all-consuming emotional bond that I expected to feel in those first couple of months just made me feel I was not built to be a mother all the more. Rather than offer myself compassion or notice this delayed bonding as what it was, my brain tried to cope with the shame and grief I felt by explaining it: I didn’t grow up dreaming of becoming a mother, and my body “malfunctioned” in late pregnancy, therefore, I did not belong in the role of mother.
Thank God I didn’t listen to that voice. It was trying to give an explanation for the fear I felt in those months, but it was completely wrong. Almost four years later, I can say that I am obsessed with her – in the healthiest way of course. I adore her. She truly is – as they say – a piece of my heart walking around outside of my body. I breathe a sigh of relief after she’s asleep at night, thankful for the end of a long exhausting day, but then spend my precious and fleeting free time looking at pictures of her, relaying all the cute things she did and said that day to my husband, and tiptoeing into her room to watch her sleep. I know for certain I would throw myself in front of a moving bus if it meant she’d escape harm. I’m bonded.
But now there are new ways of this imposter syndrome showing up in motherhood. I know I struggle with overgeneralizing – I take one instance of yelling at my kids and label myself as a “bad” mom. (I do this in other areas of my life too – feeling like I just had a mediocre session with a client makes me a “bad” therapist, getting frustrated with my husband makes me a “bad” wife). This labeling leads me to think that God made a mistake when He gifted me two incredible, amazing, precious children, and that I have no business mothering.
I recently listened to the 10% Happier Podcast with Dan Harris, in particular the episode on “Imposter Syndrome” dated 3/22/2023, with Dr. Valerie Young, who has devoted her life’s work to studying imposter syndrome. Dr. Young defines imposter syndrome as the belief that deep down, we’re really not as talented, intelligent, qualified, or capable as others think that we are, leading us to explain away, dismiss, or minimize our accomplishments, and fear “being found out.”
(A quick aside about shame: while I don’t think they’re the same, I see a lot of overlap with shame and imposter syndrome. Shame says something about our worth as a person, that we’re “bad.” Imposter syndrome says “I’m not as great as everyone seems to think I am, so I have to be perfect and can’t mess up,” which can lead to perfectionism and avoiding taking risks. Buying into the imposter syndrome narrative can be way we hustle to avoid feeling our shame. This feels like a longer blog post for another time, so I’ll get back to just focusing on imposter syndrome for now).
One of the questions I often get hung up on when thinking about imposter syndrome is: how do I know that these difficult thoughts and the self-doubt I’m struggling with are symptomatic of imposter syndrome and not an accurate picture of my abilities, talents and skills? How do I know if I’m just doubting myself after losing my cool with my pre-schooler or if I really don’t have any business mothering?
That feels ridiculous to type. Of course I have business mothering – God made me a mother when He gave me my children! So I answer my own question, and Dr. Young helps when she says that struggling with self-doubt and fear are normal. Feeling completely confident twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year is not.
Clearly, I’m not the only one struggling if there’s an actual term for this feeling. In the podcast episode, Dr. Young references several studies that cite 50-70% of the population, with as high as 90% in some studies, have experienced thoughts or feelings of being an imposter at one time or another. Dr. Young suggests we cope with imposter syndrome by seeking to become “humble realists.” This doesn’t necessarily mean giving ourselves pep talks, building ourselves up with tons of positive affirmations and ignoring all the self-doubt. Instead, it involves considering what it really means to be competent. She explains that “competence isn’t knowing everything” but that “it’s not knowing with confidence,” meaning I’m not afraid to say, “I don’t understand, what do you mean?” It involves having a realistic, healthy response to failure, feedback, and fear – 3 Fs that can feel very scary when I find myself believing I need to have it altogether.
She provides us with three tools.
- First, normalizing the experience of imposter syndrome. This looks a lot like self-compassion, in my opinion. There are perfectly good reasons that I might feel like a fraud as a mother. This does not mean that I am a fraud. Dr. Young encourages us to “contextualize more, personalize less.” For me as a mom, this might look like: “I’m having a hard time with my three-year-old in this moment. The fact that I’m struggling does not mean I’m not meant to be a mom.”
- Next, she encourages us to reframe our thoughts of “I’m an imposter and shouldn’t be doing this” by thinking about how someone who is humble, but doesn’t experience this thought, would think, feel or do differently? If I take this perspective, I imagine a mom who doesn’t feel like an imposter would think, “My three-year-old’s behavior is frustrating me and I’m tired. It makes sense that I’m struggling to know how to respond in this situation. Who can I ask for help right now?”
- Then, acting like I really believe this new thought, and allow myself to be human. Dr. Young says we don’t have to actually believe the new thought, we just have to act like we believe it. She says the goal is to talk ourselves through this imposter moment, and ultimately being okay with not knowing for sure and comfortable with uncertainty. I think of it as holding in tension the fact that I do know things, but I don’t know everything.
I don’t think it’s a coincidence that I experience self-doubt and thoughts of “I don’t belong” in areas I feel passionate about or areas in which God has gifted me. Scripture clearly indicates that the Lord gives us gifts for His glory (Eph 2:10; 1 Cor 12:1-11; 1 Peter 4:10-11; Rom 12:3-8, just to list a few). We also know from Scripture that the devil works to thwart God’s purposes (1 Peter 5:8-9; Eph 6). It makes sense to me that the devil would seek to diminish my emotional capacity in motherhood by whispering to me that I don’t belong there, that I’m doing it all wrong and therefore, should just stop trying.
Of course, I’m not perfect. I’m going to make mistakes. But the fact that I’m imperfect and going to make mistakes can co-exist with the fact that God has created me with certain strengths and abilities, and that He’s placed me in situations and contexts to exercise those gifts and abilities, however imperfectly. I’m often talking with clients about how we cognitively know something to be true, but that distressing feelings (like those of shame and self-doubt) can get in the way of us fully embracing what we know to be true, sometimes even subconsciously. I cognitively believe that God is more than enough to cover my imperfections; that those imperfections and mistakes cannot ultimately “mess up” or derail His plan for my children. But in those moments when the self-doubt and devil’s whispers are shouting in my head, it’s hard for me to really, truly believe this and not fall prey to the intense feelings of shame that come from imposter syndrome and thinking that I don’t belong.
I think the challenge is this: can I keep going anyway? Keep loving my kids the best I know how, trusting the Lord to fill in the gaps and be sovereign over my mistakes? Of course, I keep learning, keep studying, keep considering how I’m parenting…but no matter how many child experts I follow on social media, no matter how much advice I seek from seasoned parents who I respect and admire, I will still fail and make mistakes. Because I’m ultimately a flawed human being. Maybe this is what it means to be a humble realist? Keep doing my best and seeking to learn more and new information, while also acknowledging I will never be perfect, and trusting in God’s unfailing grace, mercy, and love to cover my imperfections.
As I write these words, I feel a storm brewing in my chest. But these are my children! I so badly want control. I want a protocol to follow to ensure a particular, positive outcome. Something to measure myself by, to answer the question of am I good enough? What can I do to guarantee they’ll be ok? Because it seems like so much is on the line. (But I know that even if there were such a protocol, I would still follow it imperfectly. Because again…I am imperfect.) I feel the battle between my desire for certainty that I’m doing a good enough job and not completely screwing everything up and fully trusting the Lord that He is ultimately in control and still good and still working all things together for good even if and even when my mistakes cause harm.
I feel the mountain of the task of surrendering control to Him. But I wonder if me trying to seize control and do everything “perfectly” is actually denying the reality of my imperfection and deluding myself into thinking it’s even possible to do things perfectly. What relief God’s love, grace, and sovereignty brings to my imperfect self. Of course I don’t want to minimize my mistakes, and I want to learn from them to hopefully choose a different path in the future. But I feel the foundation of God’s sovereignty, goodness, and grace beneath me.
So, with all of this in mind, I’m left to ponder: is my relationship to failure, feedback, and fear one of curiosity instead of shame and self-criticism? How can I normalize my feelings of imposter syndrome when they show up? How can I reframe those thoughts? And how can I act like I believe those reframes, even if I don’t? Ultimately, if I believe in God’s goodness and sovereignty, I have nothing to fear, and digging into these questions may help me recognize when self-doubt, imposter syndrome, and shame show up with the intention of taking me out of being present in the role of mother that God has placed me in.
