I remember the first time I felt it.
I was in my mid-20s. The band I helped start was getting noticed.
We were writing songs, pouring ourselves out in music, following whatever spark lit the next idea.
There wasn’t much calculation, just raw, earnest creation.
And people noticed. Doors opened.
Opportunities came that I hadn’t even imagined.
Honestly, I thought that was normal,
that this was just how things worked when you were “doing what you were supposed to do.”
We signed a record deal quickly with Sparrow Records,
and I naïvely thought it was the start of a lifetime of success and easy acclaim.
I was young.
And optimistically delusional.
Then one afternoon I found myself sitting at a large conference table in a Nashville label office,
surrounded by my bandmates, my friends really, and the label’s team.
We were talking about our social media strategy,
tossing around ideas.
Suddenly, in that sterile boardroom,
it hit me like a slow-moving, suffocating fog:
What am I even doing here?
I have no idea what I’m doing.
Do they know that?
What did I sign up for?
It was the first time I can remember feeling so deeply that I didn’t belong.
I felt unqualified, unworthy, out of my depth.
And I was too young to know that this is how so many of us feel so much of the time.
I didn’t have words for it then, but now I know: this was impostor syndrome.
It’s like a subtle distortion field that chips away at your sense of belonging,
a lie that roots you in fear and insecurity.
Creatively, the walls close in.
The room gets smaller.
The air thinner.
For me, it was new and disorienting.
I’m sure I’d flirted with those feelings before,
but this was the first time I truly noticed them because the stakes suddenly felt so high.
To be honest, I think that day was the beginning of the end for me in that band.
God was faithful and gracious through it all,
but that moment marked the start of a disease that took a lot out of me.
Everything began filtering through fear,
becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy.
My grip tightened on the world around me, and the tighter I held on,
the less I trusted myself, and others.
Years later, with some perspective, I know I’m not alone in this.
Especially in creative work, especially in leadership.
Because when we create, when we lead,
we’re inviting others to see what is true, honest, and deeply personal.
Creativity demands vulnerability.
Leadership demands presence.
Both require we stay rooted in who we really are.
Impostor syndrome attacks that very root, forcing us to turn inward,
to second-guess, to hide.
It makes our words, our art, our leadership feel hollow and disconnected.
We fear we’re lying simply by showing up.
We begin to feel like hypocrites.
But here’s the critical truth I’ve learned: impostor syndrome is not hypocrisy.
They might feel similar;
they both fracture integrity, breeding shame and self-doubt.
But they are fundamentally different, and that difference matters deeply.
Impostor syndrome is an internal tremor, a fear we don’t fully belong.
Hypocrisy, on the other hand, is when we choose to wear a mask,
projecting a reality we don’t truly inhabit.
It’s not a momentary misstep, but a sustained distortion of truth,
a performance staged not to survive but to control perception.
It leaves us fragmented, saying “yes” while meaning “sometimes,”
slowly eroding our reality and integrity.
The consequences of hypocrisy are not subtle.
Trust withers.
Research consistently shows that when leaders act hypocritically,
trust plummets, stifling collaboration and innovation.
Creative risk collapses, psychological safety vanishes, and culture calcifies.
Jesus spoke sharply against it:
“Woe to you…you hypocrites! For you shut the door of the Kingdom of Heaven in people’s faces. You won’t go in yourselves, and you don’t let others enter either.” (Matthew 23:13)
Hypocrisy isn’t accidental; it’s impostor syndrome realized.
Yet impostor syndrome doesn’t have to lead us there.
So what do we do?
Here are handholds I’ve found along the way:
1. acknowledge what’s happening inside.
Darkness is where mold grows, where fear festers and shame takes root.
But when we bring light into those hidden spaces
through awareness and attention, something shifts.
Being mindful doesn’t erase the feeling of not belonging, but it reframes it.
Instead of treating impostor syndrome as an alarm signaling you’re in the wrong place,
mindfulness allows you to see it as a signal;
a nudge to pause, to check your internal story, to recalibrate.
It reminds you to hold space for your humanity, not hide it.
2. remember the truth.
Question the false narratives.
Start gently.
Instead of letting your mind spin into panic or shame,
begin with simple, grounding questions.
Who invited you into this space?
What have you been entrusted with?
Where have you seen fruit, not just results, but signs of life and growth?
These questions act as anchors, reminding you of what’s real.
Impostor syndrome thrives on half-truths
and mental edits that strip your story of its context and nuance.
The truth, while often quieter than the lie, has a different quality.
It doesn’t rush.
It doesn’t inflate.
It roots you in something deeper than performance.
It reminds you that worth isn’t something you win.
It’s something you live into.
3. let go.
You don’t have to be perfect to be present, impressive to be impactful.
The myth that everyone else has it figured out is just that, a myth.
Behind every confident voice is a series of quiet doubts.
Behind every polished project is a process marked by questions, missteps, and learning.
Perfection is a moving target, often designed by fear.
But presence?
Presence is a choice.
A discipline.
A gift.
To show up as you are,
without the pressure to perform, is an act of courage.
4. say it out loud to someone safe.
Fear multiplies in silence.
It grows in the unsaid, in the places where we pretend everything is fine.
Left unchecked, it wraps itself around our hearts
and convinces us we’re the only ones who feel this way.
But the moment we bring it into the light,
through confession, vulnerability, or even just naming it to a trusted friend,
its grip begins to loosen.
Saying it out loud is not a weakness; it’s an act of resistance.
It opens the door for others to say, “Me too,”
and that shared recognition becomes a tether back to community, to courage, to truth.
Admitting fear doesn’t make it disappear, but it makes it bearable.
And that can be enough to keep going.
5. reconnect with your “why.”
Impostor syndrome asks, “What do they think of me?”
It fixates on perception; on the crowd, the critics,
the silent observers we imagine watching from the wings.
It places identity in the hands of others, turning our attention inward in the most destructive way,
self-doubt disguised as self-awareness.
But true calling asks a different question:
“What am I here to give?”
It reorients us from performance to purpose.
From anxiety to generosity.
From scarcity to offering.
When identity becomes offering, the posture changes.
We stop needing to prove and start being present.
We step into rooms not to be validated, but to contribute.
Our creativity shifts from performance art to prophetic witness.
Our leadership becomes less about control and more about invitation.
Our work, our words, our lives, they become gifts.
And gifts don’t require applause to have value.
That shift, from striving to serving, is where freedom begins.
It’s where imposter syndrome loses its grip.
It’s where integrity is born.
confronting hypocrisy.
When impostor syndrome gives way to pretending,
we edge toward something far more corrosive: hypocrisy.
It’s tempting to perform when fear tells us we’re not enough.
But growth requires alignment.
Here’s a practical path to walk with honesty and courage:
- ask, “what’s the gap?”
Where is the mismatch between your words,
your actions, and what you celebrate in others?
Am I praising qualities in others that I’m not practicing myself?
Am I projecting confidence while secretly operating from fear?
Do my public messages reflect my private rhythms?
These questions aren’t meant to shame you.
They’re meant to illuminate.
Because integrity isn’t about perfection, it’s consistency.
And when your words, your actions,
and your affirmations are in harmony,
you don’t just build trust with others.
You build trust with yourself.
- confess, don’t justify.
Naming disparity deflates its power.
When we bring a contradiction into the open,
when we admit that our public posture doesn’t match our private reality,
we disarm its ability to silently shape us.
Confession clears the fog.
It doesn’t mean you’ve failed; it means you’re choosing to realign.
It’s a spiritual and creative reset, a sacred return to center.
The moment you name the tension,
you give yourself a chance to resolve it with honesty and grace.
- realign.
Before you share anything, an idea, a plan, a piece of art, a sermon, a song,
pause and ask: Is this flowing from conviction or convenience?
Is this something I’m living, or something I want people to think I’m living?
It’s not about self-doubt; it’s about integrity.
Because when your expression is rooted in truth rather than image,
people can feel it. You can feel it.
Let your words reflect your walk.
Let your message rise from your life, not your marketing.
- cultivate accountability.
Invite honest questions as commonly as you’d ask
about the weather or someone’s weekend plans.
Build rhythms where curiosity and critique aren’t reserved
for performance reviews or crisis moments,
but are part of the everyday conversation.
Create environments where it’s normal to ask,
“How are we really doing?” and even more normal to answer with honesty.
It’s about growth.
It’s about dismantling the pressure to appear perfect,
and replacing it with the freedom to be in process, together.
- practice integrity as resistance.
Celebrate small acts of alignment.
These are the micro-movements of integrity,
the moments where you resist the urge to perform and instead choose presence.
Like saying no to an invitation that would require you to posture or pretend.
Like naming the cracks in your story instead of polishing them over.
Like choosing vulnerability in your leadership rather than control.
These small moments compound over time.
They become the scaffolding of a life that tells the truth.
And in a world constantly pressuring us to curate our image, even a single honest act is an act of creative and spiritual resistance.
The integrated life,
where what you preach, create, and live are aligned,
is not just good; it’s how we were meant to be designed.
It’s the fertile ground where trust takes root,
where calling deepens into character,
and where influence becomes genuine impact.
It’s not about being flawless, it’s about being faithful.
Showing up, again and again, with your whole self.
You are not the sum of your performance.
You are a living story of grace, grit, and growth.
A complex synthesis of calling, identity, weakness, and strength.
A person becoming.
So choose wholeness over hype.
Choose honesty over image.
Choose to bring the same heart into every room,
whether the lights are bright or barely flickering.
Your authenticity matters profoundly.
It builds bridges.
It sparks courage.
It gives permission for others to live free.
You don’t have to fake it to be faithful.
You don’t have to pretend to have it all together to make something meaningful.
You’re already here.
You’ve already said yes.
And that matters more than you know.