Throughout the many years I’ve written for Autostraddle, I’ve worked a diverse variety of day jobs in attempts to find what feels good. A few years ago, I felt a calling to go back to school to become a therapist and take comfort in knowing that at my new age of 30, I’ve found a career I can settle into. However, like most therapists, I try to hide my vocation from the general public. I’ve taken it off my Instagram bio; I sometimes lie when I’m out in social settings or on airplanes. It’s part of the job to protect my own peace, and you can’t really do that when the dude next to you on the airplane hears you’re a therapist and decides to give you his whole life story.
I haven’t exactly publicized in our Autostraddle-verse that I’m a therapist, partially for this reason, but mostly out of fear. There’s always the chance someone could take what I say as professional advice or hold me accountable for something that’s happened in their own lives. Existing as a therapist in other spaces lends itself to vulnerability. I don’t want to share untrue information, give unsolicited (or really even solicited) advice, or have my intentions misconstrued. Underneath the ethical concerns of simply just being a therapist in the real world, I’m constantly worried I’m not doing something the right way. I’m afraid of unintentionally leading people down the wrong path because I’m not good enough, I haven’t considered every angle, I don’t have the expertise or poise, I don’t have my life together.
At some point in our lives, most of us experience this self-doubt. What makes it unique for counselors, though, is that our relationships with ourselves inevitably affects the intimate work we do. Despite the untangling we do, our personal and professional lives inform one another. No matter how much I study, how much training I do, or how qualified I am, I still carry the fear of holding someone else’ life in my hands. Am I really qualified to do this? Do I trust myself? Do my peers trust me? Am I taking the right steps here? I’m even worried, now, as I write, that I’m messing something up or don’t have the right to share my thoughts and feelings. I know this is a normal feeling, especially for therapists, but I think imposter syndrome runs rampant for those of us who are predisposed to vulnerabilities.
It’s undeniable that this phenomenon is a product of the identities I hold within the space of counseling. I’m a queer person of color in a field that’s mostly white and heteronormative. It makes sense that I’m hyperaware of how I show up, especially because I live and practice in Florida. As liberal as Orlando can be, it’s still incredibly challenging to find a workplace that operates from a place of equity, community, and anti-racism.
Even in queer-centric counseling specific spaces, white supremacy runs rampant in the power structures that determine how we counsel, how we’re supervised, how we’re perceived which, in turn, affects how we get clients and make money. For example, if I’m viewed as too experimental, too creative, too “woke,” or simply just not the same exact person as my superiors, they have the power to withhold clients and resources. Instead of being a place of mutual support, integrity, honesty, and transparency at every managerial level, it can be a place of secrets, questionable ethics, and ego. Well-meaning spaces where “we’re accepting” and “we treat everyone no matter who you are” still operate from the misguided mindset of “we don’t see color.” My graduate program prepared us for burnout, but I guess I always assumed it was from seeing and caring for clients. So far, in the early stages of my career, all of my burnout is a product of these power structures. While this certainly isn’t the case everywhere and many folks are trying their best, it’s a reality I walk into every day.
So, of course, I have imposter syndrome. I’m constantly aware of how I’m perceived, how I’m showing up to the counseling space, and if I’m good enough to help someone. The therapeutic solution to all of this is to put the client and their needs first, to gauge success by their own goals, but the truth is that it’s not always this simple. The reality is that we operate from capitalism, which means–on some level–I need to prove I can be effective and helpful in order to pay my bills. This goes against everything counseling should be, so you can imagine why even the best-intentioned counselors are exhausted.
But that’s the work I do, the work I chose to devote my life to. It just sometimes feels like I’m not good enough despite logically knowing I’m capable, smart, intuitive, and caring. I know I’m good enough, and I know that structures are built against inclusive counseling spaces. Yet, imposter syndrome runs deep. Sometimes I just feel like I’ve failed, and that’s okay. It’s not the responsibility of the client to carry this weight. I want to make it perfectly clear that my (or any therapist’s) imposter syndrome is not yours to carry. It’s simply the reality for most of us queer folks working in a heteronormative world.
Outside of this bubble of safety I try to provide for my clients, the world is harsh, and it feels so impossible difficult to advocate for their well being from a state level — let alone within the confines of the agency or practice I work for. I’m a therapist in Florida because I want to support my community. I want to help queer and trans youth survive and thrive in politically devastating times. When I’m in the counseling room with these folks, I feel a sense of purpose, connection, and mutual empowerment. I find peace in knowing that even showing up and trying my best for my community is enough. I can have imposter syndrome and be a good therapist. In fact, I wouldn’t be a good therapist if I didn’t at least try to practice what I preach.
