Grow some feathers, kid.
I’ve had a bit of an eclectic working life. It took me around 30 years of being in the workforce before I started doing something I would consider to be a career. And, as you might expect from all long, strange trips, I arrived at my destination with a lot of baggage.
The biggest, hard-shell suitcase I was dragging around held my imposter syndrome. Part of me was 100% convinced that I did not belong in the corporate world. I was just waiting for the other shoe to drop, for everyone around me to wake up and realize that I was not as competent as they had originally thought. In an effort to keep my cracks from showing, I hid as much as possible.
Are you picturing me cowering under my desk? Cute, right? Not literally true, of course, but it’s a pretty good metaphor for my mental state. I didn’t want to take a single risk. Any straw might turn out to be the one that broke the camel’s back. I didn’t do anything without a safety net. I made sure I got permission or validation for every move I wanted to make. I kept my ideas to myself until I could “perfect” them, and even then, I’d only share them with a trusted adult, I mean mentor, and ask them to share them with others for me.
To make matters worse, I didn’t really have any self-awareness of this behavior at the time. I was not just playing small. I was playing at the sub-atomic level — nothing that could be seen with the naked eye. And I wasn’t the only one. This needy and unproductive behavior became pervasive enough that a call came down from our leadership team that we all needed to step up our game. They were tired of “baby birding” us.
Baby birding. I mean, I get the relevance of the metaphor but… EWWWWWWW.
This is not a mental picture I want to carry around, especially not applied to myself. But stepping out of my comfortable shadowy nook wasn’t something I knew how to do. I mean, I knew intellectually of course. But knowing something with my brain and acting on it with the rest of my body are two entirely different things.
I had no skills, and, since what I was being asked to do was dangerous, I literally couldn’t have a safe way to practice. If I was going to be able to do this, I needed some sort of backup to talk myself into it.
So, I invented a tool for myself: two simple questions, and a matrix of answers that helped get me out of my paralysis.
Question 1: Do I have everything I need to do the thing in front of me? This includes the skills, the tools, the access, the relationships, yadda yadda yadda.
Question 2: If the action I take or the decision I make turns out to be wrong, can I deal with the consequences?
Every time I found myself gearing up to ask for permission or validation, I’d pause and ask myself these questions. If the answer to both questions was no, then I would go to my manager or my mentor for help. If the answer to both questions was yes, then I could jump of that cliff and just do the thing.
If my answer to the first question was “no,” I’d force myself to literally write down a “gap list.” What did I need to learn or what skill did I need to acquire before I could do the thing? Whatever was on that gap list became my to do list. I had to track down the resources to bridge the identified gaps. More often than not, I had all the knowledge and skills I needed, I’d just convinced myself I didn’t have ENOUGH of them to be “up to the task.” As soon as I started trying to fill my perceived gaps, I realized that I actually had everything I needed to move forward.
If my answer to the second question was “no,” that was a little more complicated. I am a “worst case scenario” kind of person. As soon as I identify a potential risk, my internal monologue is already telling me the story of how that risk will blow up in my face with enough shrapnel to create career-ending injuries. And I’m a pretty good storyteller (if I do say so myself). At least, good enough to convince myself that every decision carried potentially world ending consequences.
To navigate my overactive horrorscape of an imagination, I again had to create a list. I called this one the “Signs of the Apocalypse.” I had to write down every single thing that would have to go wrong in order for my imagined catastrophe to happen. This included naming those people who would have to be in on the conspiracy for it to work. Meaning, most of these devastating scenarios involved not just my screw up, but an avalanche of screw ups perpetrated by a veritable army of people. Once I had my list written, I had to cross out every apocalyptic stepping stone that required the active participation of someone other than me. Basically, I had to get myself to the point where I limited my vision to only the direct consequences of my single action or decision. Much to my chagrin, in most cases it really wasn’t much. It certainly wasn’t enough to merit hunkering down in the safe little bomb shelter of my mind.
Those of you who have never suffered from imposter syndrome, who never suffer analysis paralysis, who never feel like they are constantly quaking in the face of the oncoming storm — to you people, this probably sounds ridiculous. If you’re one of those blessed multitudes who can look at a decision, pick out a single option as the likely best one, and then go act on it, then this whole questioning and list-making process probably seems like a ridiculous waste of time.
But if you have ever been a baby bird, naked of feathers and waiting for lunch, then this might be just what you need to start taking your first hopping steps out of the nest.
To be completely honest, it really doesn’t make things less scary. All of my list making never really eliminated my imposter syndrome. But it does help me shoot down my excuses, at least temporarily. And that’s been enough to help me lean into my leadership — use my voice, share my ideas, stand up for the things I know to be right even when it feels dangerous. Danger will never be my middle name, but at least my lists let me sometimes pretend that it’s my secret identity.
And, truth be told, my lists these days are shorter. Some things don’t even make it onto the list anymore. My view of myself is more well-rounded, even in my knee-jerk anxious reactions. I’ve learned the difference between actual risk and simple discomfort. I don’t like to get uncomfortable, but I’m not really afraid of it anymore.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that if you can give yourself perspective, if you can use a tool to take an objective look at yourself, you can, at the very least, become your own safety net. Eventually, leaving the nest becomes less and less scary.
And now that I’m not a baby bird anymore, on my best days, (and please tell me you saw this coming)…
I believe I can fly.
