Help. I don’t know what I’m doing. I mean, I’m pretty sure I’m not qualified to tell people who are perfectly qualified to do something that they are not qualified to do that thing.

I’m talking qualified. Decades of training, education, and experience. I have no business trying to undermine those people. Who am I to tell them they can’t do the thing they’ve been hired to do?

I’m Imposter Syndrome, that’s who. And I’m not worthy.

I’m so awkward and ungainly. I take up so much space. I’m always elbowing framed diplomas off walls and knocking awards off shelves. All those memories people have of the times they did really well? I kick those right out of their skulls. And I shine a spotlight on those bad memories. You know the ones, like the time you confused a clementine with a satsuma when you were ten? And you call yourself a professional chef now?

I’m sorry. I should have thought before I spoke.

But I never do. Because I’m Imposter Syndrome.

Who am I to tell you, you can’t possibly be doing this right when I’m pretty sure I’m not doing this right? If I was doing this right, I’d be bothering the world’s ignoramuses: the twits on Success Street who only got where they are because of nepotism or the complete lintymints who think that because they read something on the internet, they know more about it than a licensed professional. I want to grab that bullshit by the horns.

But I can’t get near them, because Unwarranted Confidence got there first. I think I could really do a number on Unwarranted Confidence. I should do a number on Unwarranted Confidence. But I don’t have the confidence to do that. Because I’m Imposter Syndrome and I suck at my job.

People either ignore me or I make them sick. The only people who do really well off me are celebrity impersonators, but I can’t take credit for that. That’s mainly genetics and a good make-up artist.

I just want to put it out there: to all the white men who read the internet and know absolutely nothing: I am here for you, guys and I think we could really make a great team, you know? I whisper a little, “Are you sure you should try schooling that expert in her field of expertise?” as he condescendingly explains to her the meaning of the article that she wrote.

“Are you sure you want to run for president? You have no political experience and you’re not very bright.”

And he actually listens to me and deletes what he’s typing. Or he doesn’t run for president.

Actually, that’s my fantasy. But it’s just a fantasy. It would never actually happen, because no one like that would ever listen to little old me. I’m just Imposter Syndrome. What do I know?

For some reason, women tend to listen to me. Well, most of them do. Especially new mothers, the ones who’ve read every parenting book on the market, the ones who work with their therapists for years on being better parents than their parents were. Oh, those women set me a chair at the dinner table. They crochet comforters for me. They lock me inside their houses. Thing is, I don’t belong there. I think the parents who think they suck as parents aren’t the bad parents. It’s the ones who think they’re great parents, the ones who think it’s their kids who aren’t worthy, those are the parents who really need me. Really, really, really.

But they’ve got no time for me, because I’m Imposter Syndrome.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got an Elvis impersonator contest to judge. I’m not sure why they asked me. I can’t even remember what a real Elvis looks like.