Imposter Syndrome

We never truly know what other people think of us. When we find out, it's sometimes surprising. But they can be right, even if we don't necessarily agree.

I was talking yesterday with a person in the mentorship program for new prison arrivals—a program for which I, a mentor with a lot of other stuff on my plate besides, do the bare minimum. He was speaking critically about the mentors who do nothing for the program. I raised my hand, and said, "Guilty as charged."

"You do a lot for the community, though!" he said, sounding almost offended. "You're a positive influence and a role model for what we can be, even though we're in prison."

Me, a pillar of the community? That's a lot of weight to carry. Nevertheless, I accepted his acknowledgment of my service with grace. This went some way to explaining the gifts I received from neighbors and acquaintances for more than a week after my birthday had passed—pencil drawings and handmade fudge and from-scratch cake, all speaking to the kindness of my fellow prisoners as much as to the reputation I've somehow established here.

Part of my uneasiness at being well regarded stems from not yet fully thinking of myself as a decent person. Memories can take a lifetime to fade, and my residual self image remains the egocentric asshole I was before coming to prison. It surprises me when people see me as anything else, even though I know it shouldn't. I haven't been that little jerk for a lot of years.

Metta practice, in Buddhism, is the cultivation of a loving heart. Metta, sometimes called "lovingkindness," is a feeling a person may develop, but it can also be experienced and expressed though acts of service, or by doing things for the sake of community betterment. Developing metta partly involves meditating with these four sentences while thinking of other people: "May you be happy. May you be at ease. May you be free from harm. May you be free." There's more involved, but that's the basis of it.

I often sit in metta practice. I don't remember how or when I started doing it, but I know the why. Something in me needed it. Submerging myself in resentment and bitterness about my circumstances would've been easy. I was circling that dark place before I began exploring Buddhism. Continuing further down that road surely would've ruined me. Today, more than a decade later, I can attribute to metta practice at least some of my decency as a human being.

A lot of the Buddha's teachings urge practitioners not to get caught up on things. Therefore, as a general rule, I don't think about my "progress" along the path. Sometimes, though, people say things that prompt exactly those thoughts. Then I wonder what they're seeing that I didn't notice, or they're making a big deal out of something I consider effortless or unworthy of mention.

Why is it still so hard to think of myself as a good person? I don't get down on myself or think of myself as less-than; I just don't seek out recognition nor altogether understand when it's given. The very first part of metta practice typically involves expressing those four sentences to oneself: "May I be happy. May I be at ease. May I be free from harm. May I be free."

I could add a sentence to my next metta meditation. "May I accept that others' opinion of me as a good person is probably more valid than my own."