This is part of a series of reflections by Paul Sinclair, one of the managing directors of Mind Matters. Drawing on his experience in high-pressure environments and his training with Dr Gabor Maté, Paul writes with unflinching honesty about the patterns he sees in his work with clients and in his own life. In this piece, he explores how psychedelics (especially psilocybin) may offer hope for those struggling with anxiety.
Imposter syndrome is a master of disguise. It doesn’t stomp into the room blowing a whistle; it slips in quietly, well-dressed, well-mannered, with a clipboard full of doubts and a polite but insistent sneer. It lingers just behind our shoulders, arms crossed, waiting for us to trip over our own brilliance. The joke? It often sets up shop in the minds of the competent, the capable, the ones who are actually doing the work, because what could be more tragic than excellence haunted by disbelief?
It starts young, all the best psychological chaos does. Childhood: that glorious, formative era where you learn that love might be conditional and praise comes with terms and conditions. Perhaps your achievements were minimised and met with tepid nods, or worse, weaponised in front of relatives, “ your sister did better, why can’t you?” A subtle but relentless critique of ‘earn your worth’ is delivered, and we all graduate with honours.
Parents mean well, usually. But intention doesn’t always translate. Especially when juggling their own fears and disappointments while trying to shape a small human into something impressive enough to boast about. A bit of praise here, a dash of emotional neglect there, and voilà, you’re fully marinated in self-doubt before your ninth birthday. The message is rarely direct. It doesn’t have to be. You just start to notice that being loved feels easier when you’re exceptional.
Were you the golden child? The star pupil? The family’s last great hope? Congratulations. You probably carry imposter syndrome like an expensive coat you hate but can’t take off, tailored just for you by the expectations of others. The price of early potential is often a lifetime subscription to dread. The fear of being unmasked, of being found out as ordinary. Because heaven forbid you simply exist without impressing anyone.
Schools rarely help. You’re rewarded for performance, punished for deviance, and taught that the correct answer is always better than the honest one. Creativity gets you odd looks. Emotional intelligence gets you labelled a drama queen. You learn to edit yourself into a palatable version of success. And when you finally escape the system, you realise it followed you into adulthood and now wears a suit.
When we’re grown, impostor syndrome is fluent in our internal language. It’s the smirk when we get promoted, the shrug when someone compliments our work, the deep suspicion that our entire life has been one long con. We nod politely in meetings while our inner critics wonder how we managed to sneak in under everyone’s radar. It’s exhausting, but perversely comforting. At least it’s familiar.
I remember when I was selected to train and eventually serve as a nuclear propulsion engineer aboard Royal Navy nuclear submarines. It was a prestigious path, only five percent of engineers ever get that opportunity. On paper, it should have felt like a victory. In reality, it felt like a mistake. Everyone else seemed to glide through the training like they were born knowing the intricacies of atomic theory. At the same time, I, wide-eyed, twenty-one, and permanently wired on instant coffee, felt like I was drowning in equations and reactor schematics.
While they slept, I stayed up every night, trying to make sense of neutrons, coolant loops, and decay heat. I remember poring over reactor manuals with a kind of religious desperation, hoping that if I read them enough, it would click. Hoping no one would notice that I didn’t feel smart enough, technical enough, Navy enough. Imposter syndrome didn’t whisper, it screamed. And when I qualified, I didn’t celebrate. I couldn’t. I was still waiting for someone to tap me on the shoulder and tell me there’d been a mistake.
I did qualify. I wore the badge and the braid. I held the responsibility. They don’t give out nuclear engineering qualifications to dickheads. The bar was high, and I cleared it, not because I conned anyone, but because I worked, cared, and kept showing up. Somewhere in that relentless striving was a strange sort of quiet courage. I must have been doing something right. Right?
Impostor syndrome isn’t entirely a villain. That nagging, maddening voice? It hasn’t just tormented us, it’s driven us. It’s the reason we double-checked the work, stayed up a little later, and went a little deeper. It’s the same voice that kept us grinding when others coasted. Dysfunction, after all, always has a function. We don’t cling to it for fun; we cling to it because, on some twisted level, it’s served us. Polished us. Sharpened us. Made us obsessive in the best and worst of ways. That voice may be an arsehole, but it’s helped us shine. Brilliance is often born from discomfort. And if that voice occasionally leaves us sleepless? Well, at least we’ve built something to lose sleep over.
Ironically, the better you are, the louder it gets. Success doesn’t shut it up, it eggs it on. Because what if they finally see through you? What if the next project, the next pitch, the next experiment is the one that finally exposes you as the fraud you’ve always secretly suspected yourself to be? You’re brilliant, but let’s not get carried away. That’s the mantra of impostor syndrome.
So what’s the strategy? A complete exorcism might be overkill (though tempting). Instead, start by listening. Identify the voice. Is it your father’s disapproval? A former boss’s backhanded compliment? Your year 6 teacher who said you had ‘potential’ in that ominous tone? Name it. Drag it into the light. Then give it a biscuit, tell it to fuck off. Let it sit in the corner, writing dramatic poetry about misunderstood genius. It can stay, if necessary, but it’s on mute now.
Revisit the younger you. The one who thought they had to earn their right to exist. Offer them something radical: compassion. Sit with their fears, let them speak, then kindly let them rest. The goal isn’t to fix them, it’s to listen.
And for the love of all things weary and overachieving, talk to people. Impostor syndrome thrives in isolation, fed by the illusion that everyone else is coasting through life on a cloud of competence. They’re not. They’re just hiding their panic better. Whenever someone admits they feel like a fraud, a tiny curtain lifts, and the clouds part. Most of us are winging it. Elegantly, perhaps, but winging it all the same.
Self-compassion isn’t indulgent, it’s a revolution. Treat yourself as you would a deeply loved, moderately neurotic friend. Acknowledge your wins. Take rest seriously. Speak to yourself like someone who matters. You don’t have to prove your worth. You just have to be.
Set boundaries, not as a statement, but as a necessity. Say no, like it’s punctuation. Protect your time like it’s sacred, because it is. You are not required to earn rest. You are not a machine. And if some days all you manage is survival, that is more than enough.
Find mentors, not the ones who want to shape you in their image, but those who see who you already are, flaws, genius, and contradictions. Borrow their belief in you until yours catches fire. Let their clarity reflect your truth, even when yours feels like wet trousers.
Impostor syndrome isn’t something you conquer. It’s something you coexist with. Some days it’s louder, some days it’s quiet. The work is learning not to believe everything it says. The tragedy is thinking you’re alone in this. The irony is that the doubt you carry proves you care. That you want to do well. That you’re paying attention.
So no, you’re not an impostor. You’re a human being, stitched together with complexity and contradictions, doing the best you can. And frankly, that’s far more compelling than perfection. Even if you still don’t understand your payslip.
And maybe that’s the point. Perhaps we were never meant to feel certain, polished, complete. Maybe the ones who walk around dripping in confidence are better liars, mostly to themselves. Meanwhile, here you are, cracked open, self-aware, and inconveniently genuine. After all, there’s a certain elegance to doubt, a beautiful ruin. So let the impostor syndrome linger if it must. Let it write its tragic little monologue. But remember: the spotlight is yours, even if your hands are shaking.
In the end, perhaps the most absurd thing is that you’ve come this far, despite the ghosts, inner critics, and endless chorus of ‘not enough.’ You’ve walked through fire and still had the audacity to build a life. That’s not failure. That’s art. That’s defiance. That’s cool. That’s you, standing centre stage in a world that keeps trying to convince you you’re only pretending. And if that’s not the most beautifully ironic punchline of all, I don’t know what is.
Disclaimer:
The content provided in this article series by Mind Matters is for informational and educational purposes only and does not substitute professional medical advice or consultation with healthcare professionals. If you are seeking medical advice, diagnoses, or treatment, we advise you to consult a licensed medical professional or healthcare provider. Psychedelic-assisted therapy is not legalised in Malta; therefore, our services in Malta focus solely on preparation and integration. We do facilitate psychedelic-assisted therapy in collaboration with licensed therapists in jurisdictions where it is legal. We do not provide or facilitate the use of illegal substances. Please check the legal status of psychedelic substances in your jurisdiction, as legal frameworks are continuously evolving.
Paul Sinclair
Paul, Managing Director at Mind Matters, specialises in mental health, trauma, and psychedelic-assisted therapy. He has trained under Dr. Gabor Maté, a renowned expert in trauma and addiction, and has also undergone extensive training in psychedelic-assisted therapy. Paul's diverse background as an elite military unit member, top athlete, and successful entrepreneur informs his unique approach to transforming ingrained patterns of thought and behaviour. He has trained thousands of individuals, and over 20,000 development and mental health professionals follow his teachings on LinkedIn. Paul believes in the power of resilience and personal transformation, drawing from his journey to inspire and guide his clients.
