Artistic Imposter

Imposter syndrome is a remarkably clinical term for something so broad. Something you’d have to get diagnosed with, not a baseline state of re-evaluating our “belongings.” 

Social identity theory has some interesting holes that have yet to be filled by psychology, but—in a nutshell—it states that humans are consistently evaluating their in-group and out-group relationships on a level that directly increases self-esteem and decreases doubt. “I am a part of this group, and that feels good.” “I belong to this world, subdivided from the whole world, and this gives me meaning, it gives me happiness.”

I’ve belonged to many groups over the years, and fluctuations in esteem and doubt go hand in hand with group change. When I was trying to become a part of the group “graduate student,” for example, I felt a lot of doubt about my own positionality within a community of postgrad students, and overcoming that doubt took hard work, effort, and proving to myself that I could be a part of that group and be happy being there.

My relationship with the group “artist” is significantly more fraught.

In my professional life, I am an English and Psychology teacher for middle and high school students.

In my personal life, I am a musician, a visual artist, a poet, a writer, an animator, a Counterstrike competitor, a husband, a cat dad, and a son. I don’t see myself as a professional in any of these capacities; I’m gainfully employed in a field that I have a unique training and proclivity for. That is my identity that I perform professionally, the group that I belong to. 

And yet I post music every so often, and create the multimedia projects that are hosted on Lunar Languages, and I work my way up the CS leaderboards, and do all sorts of other things that bring me joy… and yet I can’t see myself as any of these things. There is just “teacher.” There is just “everything else is augmenting your professional life.”

I recognize that this is a me problem. “Sounds like you have a bad work/life balance,” some might say. And yes, that’s correct; you’ll find that teaching has one of the highest rates of employees with terrible work/life balances. But I think it’s also an extension of the groups that I am a part of.

When I was a kiddo, a young chillin’, I was a part of many musician and visual art groups. I posted work on YouTube, I collaborated with people I would consider “true” musicians, and I felt that, even though my skills were not nearly as refined as they are now, I was a musician. I was a visual artist. I was a person who could see themselves as being the things that they were. 

Now, I surround myself with the people in my professional life. I surround myself with incredible friends, but I almost never collaborate with any artistic friends of mine. I feel like a control freak in my creative endeavors, and yet I’m continually frustrated by the mismatched vibe I feel when I look at this website or when I look at the descriptions of any of my work. This website was made for art, was made by an artist… and yet I never feel as though I am that artist. My songs and multimedia projects were made by a musician… and yet I never feel as though I am that musician. Who was that? Who was that person who felt so comfortable posting anything he made? Who was that person who collaborated extensively with others, who kept chasing down the next project, who tried his best to be a good sounding board for the ideas of others? Where did he go?

I used to make all of my work for other people to look at. It was like putting on fancy plumage and strutting around, but all I was really doing was flexing in the mirror (and not that well, to be perfectly honest). For the last six years, I feel like I’ve only been making my work for me. I know that’s the way it should be, but now I have a bunch of work I’ve done that I don’t feel like other people would enjoy, a bunch of work that feels inextricably tied to the time and place each of those pieces were created, and if I displaced the temporal context of those works, some resonance that connects me to them would fall away.

I think that posting “Ataraxia” is my attempt at trying to reclaim that identity for myself. Gaining back the mantle of “artist.” Letting myself fall back into the person I once was, hitting each and every post on the pachinko board of frustration on the way down. Letting myself feel the feelings of a project’s creation being augmented by the project’s release, and learning to be okay with that again. I also have begun sharing my written work with literary journals. It’s been more than six years since any of my work was published, and I feel as though that time delta has eroded that identity as well.

I’ve never been good at posting things online. I never figured out the patterns, the motivation, vibe that is required by the internet. I’ve accepted that my audience is very small and undoubtedly will not grow without substantial effort and a significant shift in my personal priorities to see being an artist as being the most important identity in my life. 

I feel like I successfully grew up. But growing up shouldn’t mean I can no longer be the person I used to be, can no longer do the things I used to do. 

Growing up should mean that I feel more confident in the things that I do, more sure of myself and my artistic vision. My goal for 2026 is to claw back that blind confidence as much as I can, to add it to my toolbelt and be able to call upon it when needed. 

I suppose you and I both will see if I succeeded.