The Ransom of Failure
The imposter syndrome
“What’s your daily rate?”
The question hangs in the air. The client awaits. Smiling. Confident.
My throat tightens. I can barely breathe.
I prepared the number. Calculated it, recalculated it. I know what my skills are worth on the market. I know the rates.
But when I open my mouth, what comes out is 30% less.
Because somewhere in this little head of mine, a very clear voice resonates: “You failed your degree. You have no diploma. You have no right to ask for that much.”
Twenty years after Solvay.
No matter my successes, the projects delivered on time, the operational improvements, all those well-oiled processes and programs.
The wreck leaves scars that won’t fade that easily.
The little voice persists. Venomous.
“You have no right.”
What if imposter syndrome was not only about self-confidence, but a punishment we inflict on ourselves for every failure?
In my previous letter, I talked about practice failures. Those ultimately useful setbacks we bounce back from, that teach us and make us stronger.
I may have given the impression it was simple. A little skid off the road, followed by a quick patch-up and off you go again like nothing happened. Chop chop, move along, nothing to see here.
Small bruises to the ego. Inconsequential.
But that would be a lie.
Indeed, while it’s true that practice failures don’t paralyze us, they don’t leave us unscathed either.
Yes, we recover. Yes, we bounce back. Yes, we keep going. That’s the whole point: they scratch the ego without reaching identity.
But they mark us nonetheless.
My failed degree? Hard to digest, sure, and yet, I got back on my feet. I worked. I built a career despite everything.
Despite everything.
Because the gash made to my pride, even after it closed, left a scar.
An imprint. Invisible to others. Impossible for me to ignore.
A groove where doubt settled in comfortably, tireless travel companion, always ready to hit me with the cold shower.
“Loser. You think you’re smart? You couldn’t even finish your degree. You’re worth nothing.”
And this insidious little voice in my ear, constantly undermining and belittling, has a name: imposter syndrome.
At first, I was fierce.
I was going to show them all what I was capable of.
I knew one could make it without a degree. It was just a piece of paper, after all. I was resourceful. I had a plan: climb up from the lowest rung, learn all the tricks of the trade, know the terrain like the back of my hand.
I worked. Hard. Learned on the job. Delivered. I analyzed, built, improved, participated, collaborated, supervised. Everything useful and necessary.
But.
I never felt legitimate. Whatever I did.
Every salary negotiation was an ordeal.
I was afraid to ask for too much. That they’d laugh in my face. That they’d say: “Who do you think you are? You barely made it out of high school.”
No one ever said it to me, mind you. Never.
Except me. Every time. As untrue the statement was.
So when the moment come, I deflated. Not completely. Just... a bit less. Always a bit less.
But work-wise? There, it was the opposite.
I went overboard. I overperformed. The model employee. The one who always arrives early, who delivers work before the deadline, who never says no. Who does more than asked. Before it’s even asked.
Professional conscience, I told myself.
In reality, I was terrified.
Terrified of losing the little credit I’d managed to gain. Of being replaced. Thrown out. Humiliated.
So I always did more. More projects. More hours. More responsibilities.
To prove I deserved to be there.
It’s a spiral: the more you undervalue yourself, the more you compensate. The more you compensate, the more you wear yourself out. The more you wear yourself out, the more you doubt. The more you doubt, the more you undervalue yourself.
I was paying the ransom for that missing piece of paper.
And the worst part?
Since I’d been unable to provide written proof that I deserved my place, I looked for it outside.
In recognition. In praise. In others’ approval.
Because when you don’t feel legitimate from within, you need others to tell you.
Again. And again. And again.
A “thank you”? I beamed. An “excellent work”? I finally felt legitimate. Temporarily.
But the slightest criticism? Back to hell.
I became a validation junkie.
And that’s soul-crushing.
Because it’s never enough.
A “thank you” only lasts a few hours. Then the doubt returns.
Praise only lasts a few days. Then you wonder again if you really belong.
You go down the rabbit’s hole. Running after something you can never quite catch.
And while you run, you drain yourself dry. You empty yourself. You give everything.
For crumbs.
But you know what?
For an employer, it’s the jackpot.
Imagine.
Someone who never negotiates their salary, or barely. Who always accepts more work. Who does everything to make their hierarchy happy.
HR’s dream.
Well... that jackpot has an expiration date.
Because you can’t run at full capacity indefinitely. Not without breaking.
Burnout isn’t an accident. It’s the logical conclusion of this spiral.
You undervalue yourself, you compensate, you exhaust yourself, you doubt, you compensate even harder. Until the day the body gives up. The brain refuses to start. You can’t anymore.
And there, the perfect employee becomes the employee on sick leave.
Not so profitable, suddenly.
Imposter syndrome is a gold mine for companies. Until the mine collapses. And a prison for us. Until we die in it.
See the trap?
The shift came from a conversation with my husband.
We were talking about our respective daily rates. Well, to be fair, I was ranting about our respective daily rates.
“It’s crazy, really. No one questions your rate. Ever. Me, they systematically negotiate. Downward, obviously.”
I had my explanation ready: the gender pay gap. Studies prove it. The numbers are there. It was sexism, period.
He just asked a question.
“You really think that’s all there is?”
I rolled my eyes. Of course! What else?
“Maybe. But tell me: how do you present yourself when you tell your rate?”
Silence.
“On my side, I just state it. Period. But you, how do you do?”
And there, I understood.
Me, I always gave my rate apologetically. Leaving an opening. Suggesting we could discuss it.
“So, normally I’m at X, but well, we can see, you know, if that doesn’t work...”
Him? He just gave the number. Full stop.
Nothing aggressive. Nothing arrogant. Just... confident.
And there, I saw the pattern.
It wasn’t sexism. It was me.
Me undervaluing myself before anyone even asked.
Me opening the door to negotiations.
Me sending the signal: “I’m not sure I’m worth that.”
I wasn’t working for the project. I wasn’t working for the money. I wasn’t even working for my personal satisfaction.
I was working to prove I deserved to be there.
And that day, I realized something terrible:
No matter how much I did, it would never be enough.
Because the problem wasn’t my work.
The problem was I didn’t feel legitimate.
And no amount of external recognition could fill that internal void.
Getting out of this spiral?
I won’t lie and tell you I found THE miracle solution. That I conquered imposter syndrome once and for all.
Because that would be false.
The little voice is still there.
But I learned something: I don’t need it to shut up to move forward.
I just need to change my relationship with it.
I decided to listen to it differently.
Not as absolute truth. Not as a sentence.
But as an advisor. A bit paranoid, sure. But who sometimes points out interesting things.
When it tells me: “You’re not legitimate to ask for that,” I translate: “Here’s a place where you feel vulnerable.”
When it whispers: “They’ll discover you don’t know,” I understand: “Here’s an area where you could be manipulated.”
The little voice shows me my flaws.
The places where I consider myself weak. The zones where I might be exposed to criticism. The moments when I risk acting against my own interests.
And that’s precious.
Not to paralyze me. Not to convince me to quit.
But to prepare me.
To identify what could destabilize me. To anticipate possible manipulations. To not let myself be trapped by my own insecurity.
I stopped fighting it.
Because fighting it is too taxing. And ineffective.
It always wins. It knows all my weak points.
So I changed strategy.
I listen. I note what it says. And I decide, consciously, what I do with it.
Sometimes it’s right. I’m not prepared. I should dig deeper. Work on that weak point.
Sometimes it lies. I’m competent. I deserve my place. I can ask for that rate.
The difference?
I decide. Not it.
I no longer say: “The little voice says I can’t, so I can’t.”
I say: “The little voice signals a sensitive zone. Let’s see what’s really there.”
It’s not a definitive victory.
It’s daily work. Constant vigilance.
Some days, I manage. Other days, it wins.
But at least, I’m no longer on autopilot.
I no longer undervalue myself by reflex. I no longer overperform out of terror. I no longer live for crumbs of recognition.
I’m learning.
To negotiate despite the fear. To say no despite the anxiety. To ask for my due despite the doubt.
Not because the little voice shut up.
But because I learned to listen to it differently.
Everyone will find their way to manage imposter syndrome.
Some with therapy. Others with a coach. Still others by testing, failing, adjusting.
There’s no universal recipe.
Just leads. Attempts. Learnings.
What matters is recognizing the pattern. Seeing the spiral. Understanding you have a choice.
That you don’t have to undervalue yourself to survive.
That you don’t have to overperform to deserve your place.
That you can build your legitimacy differently.
With your scars. With your doubts. With your venomous little voice.
But without letting it drive.
📝 The overcompensation grid (2 minutes)
Check what applies to you:
□ I rarely say “no” □ I often work more than asked □ I systematically arrive early □ I check my work 5 times before sending it □ I apologize a lot □ I eagerly await positive feedback □ One criticism ruins my day □ I minimize my successes
How many boxes checked?
0-2: The little voice whispers
3-5: It speaks loudly
6-8: It screams and you listen
📝 The “not yet” list (2 minutes)
Finish this sentence 5 times:
“I can’t do X because I haven’t YET...”
Examples:
“I can’t write a book because I haven’t yet published an article.”
“I can’t raise my rates because I don’t yet have 10 years of experience.”
Your “not yets”? Those are the bars of your prison.
In the next letter, we’ll dive into the heart of this inner voice. Not just to understand it, but to see how it colors every interaction with the outside world.
How it transforms a simple question—”Why do you do it that way?”—into a personal attack. How it makes us see blame where there is none. How it filters everything that happens to us through the prism of our illegitimacy.
Because imposter syndrome doesn’t just live in our head.
It poisons our relationship with others.
