Impostor Syndrome in 5 Stages

(Originally written for Kasamahan Co, an organization committed to the archival of oral history of Filipinos in Hawaii.)

Grief is often associated with loss like the absence of something, or someone once cherished. But what if grief could also rise in the face of something new, something unfamiliar? What if grief came with success, opportunity, and the spaces we fought to enter? Impostor syndrome, for many of us in the diaspora, mimics the stages of grief. It’s the mourning of certainty, the loss of feeling at home within ourselves. It’s the quiet crumbling of confidence and the tension between visibility and vulnerability.

As a diasporic Filipino (settling in Toronto, Canada), I’ve felt the weight of impostor syndrome in every unfamiliar room I have walked into. I’ve carried the uneasy knowledge that no matter how hard I worked, no matter how much I achieved, a voice inside me whispered that I was undeserving. That my place here was conditional. That at any moment, someone might discover I had only ever been pretending. But what if this feeling wasn't a personal failure? What if it was a learned response, a symptom of displacement?

In this reflection, I explore how the experience of impostor syndrome follows the trajectory of Kübler-Ross’s five stages of grief. By tracing my journey within a fine arts program through denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance, I hope to uncover what it means to grieve the loss of certainty and to embrace the belonging I have always deserved.

For those of us who have been displaced, whether by migration, opportunity, or ambition, this grief is not just personal—it is ancestral, cultural, and systemic. As my friend Chachie put it:

The feeling of being an impostor is a lie you’ve been taught, not a truth you were born with. You are capable. You are worthy. Every experience, every struggle, and every success is a testament to your strength. Release the fear of being “found out.” You are not pretending—you are becoming.

Denial – "I don’t belong here."

This initial stage of impostor syndrome isn’t just about self-doubt—it’s about the grief of losing the certainty I once had in my abilities, a certainty that was slowly eroded by systemic and cultural messages about who is allowed to belong. You tell yourself it was luck. Right place, right time. Maybe they were just being kind. If they really knew what they were doing, they would have chosen someone else. Praise doesn’t land. Instead of accepting it, you shrink away. You deflect. You minimize. You justify it away before it can settle in.

When I first entered my high school fine arts program, I was 14 and I thought I had made it. Back in middle school, I was one of the best, and my work was praised, my talent unquestioned. But here, surrounded by students who carried themselves with effortless certainty, my confidence was shaken.

Rather than accepting and celebrating the achievement of getting into this incredibly competitive program, I immediately went to work on achieving more. I couldn’t just rest in knowing I had done something great, I also had to prove I belonged. But hadn’t I already done that through admissions? Yes, and yet, as my father used to say, “If you’re the best in the room, you’re in the wrong room.” I understood that to mean I must always chase more, because I would never be enough.

I brushed off the unease at first, telling myself I was just adjusting. I downplayed my achievements, convincing myself I had simply gotten lucky. Maybe the admissions panel had made a mistake. Maybe I had slipped through the cracks unnoticed, and soon, everyone would realize I didn’t belong. There is a specific kind of denial that comes with being a diasporic Filipino—a learned instinct to shrink oneself. We are raised to be humble, to downplay success, and to avoid drawing too much attention. I had spent my childhood absorbing unspoken rules: do the work, keep your head down, and let your effort speak for itself.

But what happens when effort alone isn’t enough?

Anger – "Why is it easier for them?"

This stage of grief highlights the painful realization that belonging isn’t simply about merit—it’s about access, privilege, and unspoken rules. My anger wasn’t just about one unfair moment; it was the grief of recognizing that I had to fight harder for the same recognition.

One moment lingers: I asked for materials and was denied. Minutes later, Sylvie* asked and received them without hesitation. The message was clear, though no one said it outright—some people were granted access, while others had to prove they were worthy of it.

I was angry. Angry at the teacher who dismissed my request. Angry at Sylvie for receiving what I had been denied. Angry at myself for not knowing how to navigate the unspoken rules of who was favored and who was overlooked. I was given everything I needed or could have wanted in my previous school. I was selected for special programs that took me out of regular classes once a month to develop my skills. One of my most cherished memories from that time is a bracelet I crafted with the guidance of a community elder—styled after a medicine wheel, made with deer bones. To this day, it’s tucked away safely in my jewelry box, a reminder of my younger self’s creativity and determination. But in this program as an angsty teen, rage filled my tiny body. “Why does she get it and not me? What makes her so special?” were regular thoughts. And with each repetition of those statements, I became more and more enraged. I searched for answers through observations and comparison, until I couldn’t handle it anymore.

Like grief, impostor syndrome carries an undercurrent of rage. Not just at the obstacles in our way, but at the realization that some of us were never meant to feel at home in the first place. It rises when someone overlooks you, talks over you, dismisses you. When they say the thing you were just about to say—then get credit for it. When they assume you’re less capable, less experienced, less knowledgeable than you are. This is a familiar rage among Filipinos in the diaspora—the quiet, simmering frustration of being underestimated, overlooked, or dismissed. The realization that meritocracy is a myth, and that talent is often secondary to privilege. The rage of knowing that you have to work twice as hard for half the recognition.

Bargaining – "If I switch programs, I won’t feel this way."

Here, grief became a negotiation: If I could just find the right space, maybe the feeling of displacement would go away.But impostor syndrome follows us not because we lack ability, but because we’ve been conditioned to believe we are never enough.

I thought maybe the problem wasn’t me, but the program itself. Maybe I wasn’t meant for fine arts. I convinced myself that I wasn’t actually creative like my classmates, just someone who had picked up a lot of techniques. But technique and no talent only take you so far, and the feeling that I had taken a spot that could be revoked was not pleasant. In an effort to relieve the pressure I thought I could move to the drama and vocal stream. I practiced, rehearsed and auditioned, ultimately receiving an offer. This felt right because I triumphed through the preparation stage. I made the switch. I liked that it was a different kind of hard. As if I was giving myself permission to not be the best because this was possible given my lack of experience. I was there to learn. But then anytime I sang, I felt like I was a fraud. Everything exciting skewed to sopranos and I was an alto with a nice tone of voice but no training. So I received no praise, only critique and feedback ranging from a need to loosen up to changing the way I breathed. The familiar pressure returned. “We can’t do this,” it said, “Why’d we do this to ourselves?” Can you guess what I did next? I dropped out of the vocal stream and begged to join the dance stream. The pressure decreased again because the program couldn't expect anything of me if I’d never danced before. 

Maybe you’ve done this too—telling yourself that a new job, a new school, a new city will finally quiet the doubt. But no matter how much we shift, impostor syndrome follows, whispering the same story. It isn’t about the skill—it’s about the story I had been told about my own worth. Through high school, university and the many careers I explored, I would switch and pivot as often as needed to relieve the pressure. Until I looked around me and realized I’d lost the plot entirely. I didn’t recognize myself, my goals or my values, because I was so focused on decreasing a sensation instead of intentional navigation in my life.

In grief, we bargain to undo what has been lost; in impostor syndrome, we bargain with ourselves, hoping that the right change will finally make us feel worthy. I see this pattern in Filipino diasporic identity—the way we shape-shift to fit in, adjusting ourselves to meet expectations, hoping that if we assimilate enough, the discomfort will fade. But no amount of adaptation can erase the internalized question: Do I truly belong?

Depression – "Maybe I’ll never be good enough."

This is the stage where grief settles into resignation—where the weight of proving myself became too much, and I started rejecting myself before anyone else could. But this wasn’t a failure of ability; it was the result of years of internalized messages that told me ambition was arrogance, and visibility was a risk.

At home, the messages were conflicting. I was told to work hard, but not to be arrogant. To take pride in my skills, but not to show off. To dream big, but to stay realistic. It was exhausting. Even efforts to rehearse or improve were met with statements like “You’re just doing that for attention.”

The exhaustion of proving myself became too much, and in my grief, I did what many of us do—I withdrew, convincing myself that invisibility was safer than failure. I was locking myself in my room. Not talking to my parents. Listening only to My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy (2010) on repeat. I remember spending hours painting a portrait of Sir John A. Macdonald for a scholarship entry only to throw out the completed piece because I felt like he looked like George W. Bush. It didn’t matter that it was the first time I had painted since I left the fine arts program. It didn’t matter that it was my first portrait painting. I tossed it because I had resigned myself to believe I wouldn’t be selected anyway. The most painful thought was to put in all this effort to be ignored or unselected again, so I opted to reject myself rather than be rejected by someone else. If I wasn’t seen, I couldn’t be judged. If I didn’t try, I couldn’t fail. I let go of ambition because it was easier than constantly justifying my right to have it. And then my worst fears came true: I was disinvited from the dramatic arts program. I was told by my instructors that I had a glimmer of something, but I wasn’t consistent enough for them to trust that I had the dedication and reliability needed for the senior dramatic arts program. 

For many Filipinos in the diaspora, this is the silent grief we carry—the exhaustion of constantly proving ourselves. It tells you this is all there is. All there ever was. All there ever will be. The quiet resignation that comes from being told, over and over, to be grateful rather than ambitious. Depression doesn’t make you fight to stay. It just asks you why you would.

Acceptance – "Belonging isn’t about being the best—it’s about being brave enough to stay."

Acceptance isn’t the end of your grief. It isn’t happiness, either. Healing from impostor syndrome means reframing it as grief—grief for the certainty we lost, for the spaces we had to fight to enter, for the versions of ourselves that never felt enough. But in mourning that loss, we also make room for something new: the radical act of choosing to belong, exactly as we are. Acceptance didn’t come all at once. It came in pieces: in recognizing that impostor syndrome wasn’t about my ability but about the spaces I existed in. Understanding that belonging wasn’t something I had to earn, but something I could claim only came later in life. 

I stopped chasing external validation and started finding my own definition of success. I began to unlearn the survival mechanisms that had kept me small. I reminded myself that being seen, taking up space, and demanding recognition were not acts of arrogance but acts of resilience. Today, I respond to the thoughts that aim to keep me small with an opposite action. “Get big,” “Take up space,” or “Give it a shot and see what happens.” The strongest affirmation in this journey came from the realization that I wasn’t betraying my ancestors with perceived failures, but that I am their wildest dreams come to life. To be a part of a generation that breaks through the thumb of oppression and colonization, and to be as at home in myself as possible is a legacy I know my ninunò celebrate.

For Filipinos in the diaspora, acceptance is an act of reclamation. It’s when you find yourself laughing and realize it doesn’t feel like a betrayal. It’s when you can tell the story and it feels like a memory, not a wound. It’s understanding that we do not have to apologize for our presence, our ambition, or our worth. It’s choosing to believe that we belong not because we’ve outworked, outperformed, or outlasted, but because we are enough. 

And that is the most powerful truth of all.

Conclusion

It’s important to give yourself grace as you flow through these stages because just as Kubler-Ross’s 5 stages of grief are non-linear, so is imposter syndrome. I can firmly believe that I am in a state of acceptance for 90% of my daily life. I can also recognize there are places where that will be challenged. Maybe it’s in applying for a new designation or having a difficult conversation with a regional supervisor. I recognize and honour my need to flow through anger, bargaining, denial, and depression before coming back to acceptance. 

Because acceptance is not a singular moment of revelation, but a practice, we must commit to unlearning the narratives that tell us we don’t belong. I have come to understand that impostor syndrome is not about a lack of ability but about the spaces we exist in and the histories we carry. For those of us in the diaspora, it’s the inheritance of generations taught to be grateful rather than ambitious, to be diligent but not demanding, to adapt rather than assert.

This is why impostor syndrome is not just about self-doubt—it is about displacement. The feeling that I must prove myself over and over again is not a reflection of my actual worth but of the unspoken reality that I was never meant to feel at home in certain spaces. It is the lingering effect of histories where my presence was an afterthought, where my success was seen as an exception rather than a right. Displacement is not just about geography; it’s about existing in places that make you feel like you must apologize for taking up space.

But belonging isn’t something we must earn. It is not granted by institutions or gatekeepers. It’s something we claim. To accept that truth is to grieve the stories that kept us small and to step into the spaces we once feared with our full selves.

I am not pretending. I am becoming. And I belong—not because I have proven myself, but because I have chosen to stay.

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If this resonates with you, you don’t have to navigate it alone. I offer individual counselling, group support, and consultation to help diasporic Filipinos find home, roots, and healing. Reach out to start the conversation.