Imposter
“I am not an herbalist” I discouragingly think to myself while stirring my dandelion tea. “I do not have mass collections of rare and exotic herbs from around the world,” I reply to myself. An herbalist knows each plant by its Latin name and what chemicals inside each plant have reactions to the human body. They have painstakingly collected specimens and stored them in jars lined up by the dozens. I have a few teas, sure. But my plantain salve has too much wax and set too hard to use. It sits in a jar beneath my kitchen sink next to Clorox spray, awaiting a day I have more product to mix it with and make it usable. I do not know fleabanes' Latin name, for I am not an herbalist. I just know that it’s an aster and can be brewed into a tea just like chamomile. I am not an herbalist, I don't grow turmeric in my yard. I buy it at the store, ground into a powder. I put some of it in my breads and soups to help with inflammation. An herbalist? No. I am not an herbalist.
“I am not an energy worker” I dishearteningly say to myself as I rub my numb arm out of a tingle. “Energy workers identify and move energy as if it were physical objects,” I reply to myself. An energy worker knows the Latin name for every body part and the Chinese name for every energy point. They have painstakingly memorized acupuncture points and meridian lines. I can tell where major parts of my body have more flow, sure, but I don't know what the ancient Chinese practitioners called a single body part. I am not an energy worker, I ruminate while walking into a room and cheering up my sad friend, listening to them as they vent about their rough day. I can’t walk into a room and push people's sorrow away with my hand, no. I can identify my emotions yes but I cannot start or stop myself from feeling any of them. I cannot remove someone's cancer with my hands nor can I diagnose it either. No. I am not an energy worker.
“I am not a medium” I disparagingly say to myself as I attentively decipher which creamer to put in coffee, an offering for an ancestor. “Mediums have long lists of clients with messages to relay back and forth from the veil.” I reply to myself. A medium has long and daunting conversations, bidding the farewells never given and giving clear instructions for the living. Sure I can sometimes hear someone's long parted grandmother whisper affections but I am no medium. I do not have a staff to support my needs as I serve dozens of clients. I do not hold seances calling upon specific ancestors to come and speak to us in ceremony. “I am not a medium,” I remind myself as spirits call for attention while I drive past an old cemetery. I cannot dance with the dead, no…. I cannot ghost write a book for a ghost. I am not a medium.
“I am not a spirit worker” I dismissively say to myself as I leave an offering out in the garden. “Spirit workers travel long distances and know, without doubt, who and what they're talking to.” I reply to myself. Spirit workers can identify each type of spirit no differently than a tenured botanist can identify each species of plant in their backyard. Sure I can feel the spirits of the forest when they welcome me, and I especially can feel them when they don’t welcome me… but I cannot identify every spirit and I have many doubts. I do not know all the spirits in my own home or even if my home has a spirit. “No, I am not a spirit worker.” I remind myself as my ancestors ask for specific gifts or as forest warns me of an incoming storm. I cannot negotiate with the storm, for I am not a spirit worker.
“I am not a spirit worker, or a medium, or an energy worker, or an herbalist” I say. “I am an imposter.” I reply.
impostor syndrome
variants or imposter syndrome
: a psychological condition that is characterized by persistent doubt concerning one's abilities or accomplishments accompanied by the fear of being exposed as a fraud despite evidence of one's ongoing success