“Was there a brown van that used to come by the cottage to sell us Chelsea rolls on Sunday mornings?” my cousin asked, hoping that I’d be able to settle a friendly wager she was having with her husband.

I couldn’t recall, but I said I’d ask my Dad who I was planning on seeing that coming Saturday.

Earlier that day, I had interviewed my friend Vanessa Mentor in Haiti whose final advice to our listeners was, “Tell your stories out loud. Even if only for yourself. And your kids.”

So I was planning on asking him to share all.

Because, truly, how many more months, weeks, days would I have for him to tell me about brown vans and Chelsea rolls?

How many more months, weeks, days would I have to invite him to tell me about the time his brother wrapped an inner tub around his midsection and threw him into the Rhone River? Or to hear him talking about skiing hungover with the Austrian Olympic team? Or why he believed (and I swear these were his words) “of all the pugilistic art forms, greco-roman wrestling is the finest."

Two months, one week, and three days, it turned out. 72 days. And I never got to hear the stories.

So yeah.
Ask the questions.
Get the stories.
And tell yours.

But what’s that?
There. Right there.
That lump in your throat.
The one that makes it hard to swallow.

What’s in there? What is that energy?

Sometimes it’s hard to tell if it’s grief or rage or a beautiful orchid of a desire.

But it’s something and it needs you to release it. Only you can do it. The ideas you long to communicate. The questions you long to ask. The injustice you MUST call out. The wishes you dream of bringing to reality. The radical change you want to effect. The thing you’ve needed to say for too long that it seems that is has long since calcified. It hasn’t.

Practice saying it. Hum it. Sing it. Whisper it.

Truth is, my friends: sometimes it IS the Imposter Complex that keeps us from asking what wants to be asked and from saying what needs to be said.

But sometimes, we just simply run out of time.

Ask the questions.
Get the stories.
And tell yours.

It may be hard.
Releasing grief, rage, and even beautiful orchids often is.
But you’ve done harder than this.
You’ve asked questions that didn’t have answers.
You’ve told truths when it was neither welcome nor convenient nor appreciated.
You’ve told your stories into the dull din of ambivalence.

And I promise you this. With all that I have and all that I know:
It all matters.
And it’s what we have.
Bridging, connecting, becoming more real.

---

Check out my free training on the 5 ICONIC Shifts Leaders Use to Overcome the Imposter Complex and Grow their Income and their Impact

Where I pull back the curtain on five shifts to start raising voices, rates, and hands all while being the kind, congruent, and authentic leader I know you to be.

Not one speaking gig goes by without someone asking me why I call it “Imposter Complex”.

So let’s set the record straight.

I know you mostly hear it referred to as the “Imposter Syndrome." But see, the term clinical psychologists Dr. Pauline Clance and Dr. Suzanne Imes coined back in 1978 was actually “Imposter Phenomenon”.  Amy Cuddy calls it “Imposter Experience." I call it “Imposter Complex” - though it’s possible Jung may have different thoughts on that.

I mention this, because (a) naming is important and because (b) in calling it Imposter SYNDROME (which it has become most colloquially known, largely from Sheryl Sandberg’s 2013 blockbuster “Lean In”) is simply incorrect. It is not a clinical diagnosis of a mental health condition. So even though it sucks for my SEO to call it a “Complex," I stand by it because it feels like calling it a syndrome is distracting us from the issue, especially as I see more than my share of “stop whining about your so-called syndrome” pieces of late.

Let’s take a moment to talk about what it IS and what it ISN’T.

Drs Clance and Imes started their research at Oberlin College and were working with high-functioning, high-achieving female students and noticed a curious through-line in these women. They felt that they got into the college by fluke and that some day, any day now, they would be found out as the frauds they are.

Across the board, they seemed to be incapable of internalizing their successes. Their failures on the other hand, they were MORE than happy to own. This to say, if numbers didn’t add up, they made a mistake. But if their numbers DID add up, then they just assumed they got lucky, it was a fluke or they had somehow inadvertently managed to hack the system. That factors beyond their control (and skills and talents) were at play.

It’s not straight up self-doubt. And it’s not simply fear. Sure, those two experiences play a part in the overall experience, but they are not the same. Self-doubt and fear show up on the precipice of doing something new, exactly when the Imposter Complex does, but this is more a function of conscious incompetence. Knowing all that we don’t yet know. Always a tricky place. (Exciting too.)

Imposter Complex, though, is more like self-doubt on steroids. You experience massive stress despite your proven track record and consistent validation of your capabilities... that’s when we’re in the land of the Imposter Complex.

So I’m a big fan of attributing my teachers, but the experience of feeling like a fraud most certainly predates the naming of it. Biologists have pointed to it being an instrument of evolution, set up to ensure mutation doesn’t happen too quickly.

Ancient sages of India apparently referred to the experience of spiritual evolution, or the threshold of greatness as “chala” - the sensation of being a fraud.

Okay. I have more, much MUCH more to say about this. So keep your eye on this space. And in the meantime, why don’t you check out which ICONIC Identity is yours below?

---

What’s your ICONIC Identity?

I wrote and shared this piece with my writing group back in October 2016. I shelved it, not seeing a “purpose," then remembered it when I went through the arrivals section with my husband and daughter upon our return from France recently.

I had written it before my father died, so this piece is mostly about grieving my mother.

Now it feels like the time to share it with you.

---

I forgot... until I remembered.

Again.

Time and time again, I do this.

I forget... until I remember.

I pass through customs of my airport and push through the double doors that swing open to the non-secured area. And then I hit the wall of people; limo drivers holding signs; young families expectantly searching for the appearance of their elderly parents; lovers reuniting; friends reconnecting. Hugs shared, and tales of travels and sights seen spilling from mouths. I forget about this joy. Until I remember.

And then I hit another wall.

I am punched in the gut by grief. Tears sting the corners of my eyes with such sudden ferocity that I need to pause to catch my breath. And I can’t ever seem to get enough breath. I am overcome. Wrought. And lost in the memory.

Like it was yesterday, rather than fifteen years ago.

I can HEAR her like it was yesterday, rather than fifteen years ago. First the shriek then the “TANYA." Like I’d come back from the dead.

I hadn’t of course.

We had just come back from Europe.

I abandoned my suitcase with him to run over to them, squeezing them both with a happiness I didn’t expect to feel. My mother beside herself with joy and tears that we had returned home safely to her arms. Both of us.

My father happy too. But in his own, quieter way. Mostly happy that we went. My mother happy that we came back.

We linked arms and chattered like we’d been apart for a lifetime, rather than three scant weeks all the way to the car, and didn’t stop talking the whole drive home.

Once home, drinks were poured and she could barely contain herself while we opened our suitcases to share the souvenirs we brought back for them.

Every item, a story.

The J LeBlanc et Fils pine nut oil from Paris and the ancient oil vendor who told us about each pressing. The Mariage Frères tea purchased at KadeWe in Berlin. The foie gras from Beaune. The poire William from Tours. The gag gifts of cheap lighters from every city. The silk scarf from the boutique near the Louvre.

Each gift made her exclaim with delight. Each gift made me wish I had ten more to give her. Each story made him counter with a story of his own. Each story made me wish I had ten more to tell him.

We’ll all go together one day, we promised.

I shake myself back from this memory, only to find myself, once again at the airport with my tears and my luggage and a fervent desire to tell the huggers to never ever ever let go. To never ever ever miss the opportunity to share time, stories, love with each other.

But I don’t, because I know it won’t save them from the stings and punches that are coming. In time. They will come in time. That’s just how love works.

They go, we stay, holding the memories, the broken promises and the silk scarves. And the grief.

---

This Sunday when we passed through the double doors, I tasted the familiar joy-grief cocktail. But this time, with tears stinging my eyes, I reached for my daughter and husband’s hands and felt good. Felt strong.

You see, we had just returned from a family trip to France precipitated by my father’s dying wish to have some of their ashes scattered there. So we did.

Turns out, we did all go together. Just like we’d promised. Different, and still.

Enduring grief, enduring joy. Different, and still.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again:

Know why you experience the Imposter Complex (you may call it Imposter Syndrome, but here’s why Imposter Complex is more correct)?

Because you are a high-functioning person with strong values of mastery, integrity, and excellence.

Awesome. 

But know why else you experience it?

Ready for the realtalktruth?

Your standards and expectations of yourself are realllllllly high. And though you won’t admit it to many people, you want to be THE BEST at everything you do.

(Do you know that still, after all this work, when I take the stage at a speaking gig, I still actually EXPECT - and assume I'm a failure if I don't receive - standing ovations. Every.single.time. THAT is the stunning arrogance of my Imposter Complex. It’s lie #3… “you are all or nothing.” Oy.)

And, like me, I believe that you want to be THE MOST qualified person on the planet to be doing the work you are wanting to do. (Because if you are not the MOST qualified, then surely you are the LEAST qualified. Mmmhmm.)

And the shitty fact of the matter is this: it is exceptionally likely that you are NOT the absolutely most qualified person on the planet to be doing the work that you are wanting to do. 

The odds are highly stacked against you that you are THE BEST Parent on the planet. 

The BEST Developer.
The BEST Writer.
The BEST Speaker.
The BEST Artist.
The BEST Actor.
The BEST Activist.
The BEST Leader.
The BEST Business Owner. 

HIGHLY stacked against you, my friend.

And even more improbable is that you are THE BEST PARENT ANNNNNND SPEAKER on the planet. (Though it would be awesome if you were, of course.)

Truth is, you know more than you think and you’ll never know it all.

Can you feel the grief and the relief in that? 

Me too.

Now, I’m not saying that the road to mastery and excellence isn’t worth the commute.

It TOTALLY is.

I’m just wondering why you never include grace in your backpack for your travels?

Grace... you remember that, right?

• It’s the same stuff you dole out in great swaths to others when they stumble on video or on stage. In fact, you find their humility refreshing and it does nothing to erode your confidence in what they are saying.

• It's when you forgive others for not knowing EVERYTHING, but instead find their earnestness charming.

• When you give people on your team generous extensions on their deadlines because they are dealing with grief, but can barely allow yourself an extra nap.

Why do you hold yourself to such a different standard? Are you not also deserving and worthy of such grace? Or another way to ask: what makes you think that you are the only one who has such grace to offer?

---

And while we’re talking about offerings…  

Why do you CONSISTENTLY choose to discount the praise others offer you?

I’m thinking it's one of a couple of reasons:

You don’t trust their standards.

I mean, sure. I get it. As we’ve already established, you have strong values of mastery, integrity, and excellence, AND you don’t know EVERYTHING, right?

You know more than you think and you’ll never know it all.

So, maybe the person offering you the acknowledgment, the compliment, the praise is offering you reflection on what you DO KNOW. What you DO exceptionally well. What you DID exceptionally well. 

But because of your impeccably (impossibly?) high standards of yourself, you are out of sorts when someone compliments your work that is below your watermark. THEY mustn’t have very high standards, and as such, you don’t need to do the hard work of allowing the compliment to land.

Who was it that said that he wouldn’t want to be part of a club that would have him as a member? Ouch.

You think “they’re just being nice." 

I’ve covered this off puh-lenty of times, and yet, for chronic people-pleasers, it still stings as it sticks.

Making the assumption that everyone is just being nice is as impossible as it is dismissive of their intelligence and free will.

I mean, seriously: Who has the time to sit around blowing smoke up people’s nether-regions? Certainly not the people you respect and admire.

Imagine lining up every last person who has ever lifted you, advocated on your behalf, complimented your work, allowed you past the velvet rope of academia, gave you a great mark, review, reference, testimonial, tweet, bit of kindness.

Go ahead. Line ‘em up against that wall over there. Ran out of wall? Imagine a bigger wall.

Got them all there? See them looking at you with the kindness and admiration and respect that they feel for you?

I will repeat: MAYBE, JUST MAYBE you ought to dare to believe someone when they tell you how truly remarkable you really are.

The university admissions committee didn’t make a mistake. Your clients didn’t make a mistake. Your boss didn’t make a mistake. You earned this. Stop assuming everyone makes such massive (and SPECIFIC) mistakes. 

(Side bar: While we’re at it, when people thank you for your gifts, stop deflecting. It’s insulting to them. Just say “thank you.")

And let’s take it even further. When you diminish the value of another's opinion, you may ALSO be missing out on the honey that is their constructive critique.

Listen to them. You’ve done your due diligence. THIS is a person you say you respect and admire, so listen to them. If they didn’t care about you and your work, they wouldn’t take the time and energy to offer you conscious critique. It just doesn’t work like that. To assume anything else is straight up arrogance.

And, as ever, you get to choose what to integrate... but it starts with listening.

---

What do you think you accomplish by holding your talents back?

I see a bunch of reasons for this. And they all come with no small amount of arrogance.

Avoidance of disappointment

I think you’re a big-hearted person. And I already KNOW you have super high values of integrity. This leads me to believe that you don’t want to raise the hopes of others and disappoint them, right? So maybe you hang back from offering your (well-researched) opinion. I mean, you don’t want to send them down a dangerous path of repercussions from following your shitty counsel. (Which it MUST be because it’s not PERFECT, right?)

Hmpf.

Can you see where this once again presumes another’s lack of Sovereignty? LET THEM CHOOSE. Give them your absolute best and know that THEY TOO can listen then choose to integrate.

You’re not avoiding disappointment. You’re hoarding your best, and that is not just arrogant, but also selfish.

On some level, you may not think people can handle the fullness of who you are.

I cover a LOT of the reasons you may choose to diminish over here.

It can be scary.

But if you’ve read this far, I think you feel like you ARE in a position to make a choice.

Stay behind the curtains or answer the call that keeps you awake at night. The one that knows that you NOT standing up for what you believe in helps NO ONE.

Your powers are blindingly brilliant, but they are not capable of hurting anyone. I, for one, am not afraid of them.

I’m just afraid of them burning out if not used and shared generously and expansively.

So. Let’s make a deal, you and I.

Let’s ease up on our expectations of ourselves. If your expectations exceed what you would ask another of themselves, you may be asking too much of yourself.

Let’s ease up on our arrogance and give ourselves the big swaths of grace we offer others.

And let’s rise up and meet our desire to activate on the best work possible, and serve the world with generosity and joy. Parent. Developer. Writer. Speaker. Artist. Actor. Activist Leader. Business Owner.

Will it be the BEST WORK IN THE ENTIRE WORLD? Likely not. But that doesn’t make it any less valuable.

---

Check out my free training on the 5 Shifts Our Clients Use to Overcome the Imposter Complex and Grow their Income and their Impact

Where I pull back the curtain on five shifts to start raising voices, rates, and hands all while being the kind, congruent, and authentic leader I know you to be.

My Darling L –

You are fourteen. FOURTEEN. An age I remember like yesterday. The time of shoulder pads and slouchy boots and chunky jewelry and Aqua Net and hair scrunchies. It was all “Papa Don’t Preach” and “Walk Like an Egyptian” and Whitney and “Top Gun” and “Fame."

Gah. Like... YESTERDAY.

On your eighth birthday, I made some wishes. They continue to hold strong and true.

On your ninth, I shared some wisdom from truth-sayers intended to light your way.

On your tenth, I called in some reinforcements to reflect back the wonder that you are.

On your eleventh, I invited you to trust your body, your knowing.

On your twelfth, I made an apology and some promises I’ll never break. Namely, this: “I will never withdraw my love. I will always be your soft place to land. You will never go wrong if you are always yourself.”

On your thirteenth, I shared a story that I will never forget.

---

Today, on your fourteenth, I’m attempting to do the near impossible:

I’m trying to reflect back what I see in you. Yes, near impossible - like bottling dancing glints of diamond sunlight on the breeze-kissed lake, but I’ll try.

Because, as you reminded me when you were but six: "We have now."

Do you remember that? We were reading Charlotte’s Web and I started tearing up when Fern headed off to the fair, and you took my face in your hands and looked into my eyes as you said it. My Buddha Babe.

Yes. We have now.

And here’s what I know about now.

It’s been a tough year. Plenty of changes and transitions. You have navigated them with questions and grace and finesse.

Making decisions about high school, going away to summer camp, saying farewell to beloved neighbours who felt like family, THEN saying a final goodbye to Pops. Did you know, Sweet One, that the last moment of real connection that we had with him as he lay dying was when I told him you were reading Catcher in the Rye? (It was among the books he hand-delivered to you on your thirteenth birthday along with roses well before you woke up that morning). His whole body relaxed as he smiled and nodded. That was the last time he responded to any of us.

That’s YOU. That’s YOUR power.

---

Someone asked me to share what I say to you when you need a boost in confidence. I would love to hear YOUR answer to that, but I know I always come back to what I understand to be Unshakeable Confidence: Presence (knowing yourself, having love and reverence for the sacred being you are, and feeling your own power), Integrity (being true to your word, being true to yourself, and being obedient to what you say you want) and Action (being resilient, being willing to fail, and being tenacious).

You are all of this and more. So, so much more. (Though I suspect when you need a pep talk you hear your Pops say in his own inimitably gruff way: Illegitimi non carborundum... "Don't let the bastards grind you down.")

Watching you explore your own musical terrain is thrilling. Yes, your love of Father John Misty and Said the Whale and Ben Folds and Aimee Mann comes straight from your Dad. Your appreciation of P!nk and Bruce Springsteen and The Killers and Beyoncé comes from me. And your fondness of bluegrass and Vivaldi and Fleetwood Mac comes from a blend of your grandparents.

But you’ve brought Dear Evan Hansen and Mika into our lives, so we’re even.

We are perpetually finding balled up socks and stray earrings and old valentines in the oddest places. We find glittery pipe cleaners and silly band bracelets attached - the THINGS from when you were under seven that are the landscape of our lives - we simply cannot/will not untangle them.

---

Your loyalty to your friends is exquisite. The way your (final?) Hallowe’en costume honoured every.single.classmate with some symbol of them on your person.

My heart soars at the way you ask big and deep and vast questions and really sit in the exploration of the answers. And then, in the next breath, you’ll present a riddle that reminds me that you are, indeed, perfectly fourteen. “What’s the difference between a dirty bus depot and a lobster with breast implants?” (One's a crusty bus station and one's a busty crustacean.)

Your delight in calling out your father when he unconsciously mansplains something... especially feminism. (Bless his cotton socks.)

Your activism in your school, in particular your involvement in the Rainbow Club and commitment to diversity and inclusion. Your political aspirations.

You listen patiently as I lecture you while chopping the vegetables at the kitchen island, and though there may be a day when this no longer happens, you invite my opinions AND manage my expectations about what you will do with my counsel. That’s #nextlevel, Babe.

You are the sun the moon and the stars. You take our breath away.

---

I want to remind you again, once again, always again:

You will be right sometimes, and you will be wrong; either way, your words matter. As does your listening.

Standing up for others isn’t a “nice” things to do, it’s the only thing to do.

Things do have a way of working out, but mostly when you show up to do the work.

Your job is not to be good. Nor perfect. It is to be you. More of you. You can’t take up too much space.

And if they can’t handle your shine, Daughter? Hand them some shades.

Yes. You’re right. We have now.

Thank you for the gift you are, NOW.

Love,
Mama

---

Check out my free training on the 5 ICONIC Shifts Leaders Use to Overcome the Imposter Complex and Grow their Income and their Impact

Where I pull back the curtain on five shifts to start raising voices, rates, and hands all while being the kind, congruent, and authentic leader I know you to be.