Confessions of a fraud

Last week, a friend asked, “do you ever feel like a fraud?”

The funny thing about this question isn’t that she asked it, but that I knew exactly what she meant by the question. My answer was yes. “I feel like a fraud every time I workout at the gym.”

Interestingly enough, we happened to be at the gym when she asked. Over the last four and half years of being a gym-goer, I’ve worried about being found out. Sometimes, that feeling would wash over me as I walked to the gym, or as I changed my street shoes for gym shoes, or as I sweated through the warmup and core part of my routine. There were people working out who obviously knew what they were doing. Deep inside, I was thinking, “someone is going to see me here and know I’m an impostor.”

It hasn’t always been a gym question. The day I became a mom, I looked at that new person and said to myself, “someone is going to know you don’t have a clue.”

It didn’t matter that every new mom might feel a bit lost and dazed, tired and confused. It was pretty much the first time I remember feeling like I was a fraud who was playing at being something I wasn’t— like a mother. I listened to what more experienced moms told me, but I didn’t want to give away too much about my inability. And so the game began.

Believe or not, my children grew up relatively unscathed. But, I’m still asking myself that question—not so much about childrearing, though. Every time a person asks my advice—on any topic—I wonder if they’ll figure me out. There was a time when I was much more comfortable with my skills and abilities because, as it turns out, I knew a lot less. Now I know there’s more than one way to do a dead lift. And, there’s more than one way to soothe a baby, bake a cake, balance the books, hang wallpaper, do my job or lift weights. I haven’t quite learned to accept that I have had some role in my successes, not just in the gym, but generally in my life. I have learned the best way to get over the feeling of being an impostor or a fraud is to help people whenever I can.

A most interesting development in getting over my fraudster-phobia was to admit that I wasn’t always equipped with the right answer. I have learned to admit I don’t know the answer to some questions. Yes, I don’t have all the answers. It’s a surprise to some and a confirmation to many. I accept that I cannot be an encyclopaedia of everything and that I make mistakes—and it’s mostly okay. I have learned that lots of people have fancy credentials, although I now see credentials for what they are. Mostly, it just means a person spent more time reading books, writing essays and doing homework.

Go ahead. Ask me a question about burping a baby, or what kind of cake pan conducts the heat more evenly, or the benefit of a plumb line when hanging wallpaper in an old house. Go on. Ask me about a straight-legged dead lift. I’m likely to tell you, “that’s the kind I do. It’s great for your bumoids and your leg-sicles.” Ain’t no fancy certificate for knowing which muscles are going to hurt in the morning. And that’s the truth.

theresa@wellingtontimes.ca