To celebrate the pre-order release of You Are (Not) a Fraud: A Scientist’s Guide to the Imposter Phenomenon, this episode of the podcast covers two things:

Thoughts and reflections on audiobook production (this version of the book will be announced soon).
A bonus mini-chapter from an earlier draft of the book.

The story below was part of the original exploration of what became:

Chapter 5 - Finding Perspective

and

Chapter 7 - Social Comparisons

Please enjoy one of the stories that helped seed so much more for the deep dive into what became my book on managing imposter experiences.

Bonus Mini-Chapter

There has been an approximate two-week break since I contributed anything to this book. Among several reasons, the principal one involved a five-day break completing something known as the West Highland Way.

We all have different types of friends: those from work, those from high school, those from a sports club or music group, or maybe even that person you play chess with at the park. If we’re lucky, we also have those friends who seem timeless. You’ve known them for as long as you can remember, they’ve been with you at various stages of your life, and you can’t remember a time when you didn’t know them. You’re able to talk to them about anything and embarrass yourself in front to f them without consequence. I’m fortunate enough to have such friends.

Three of them joined me on the West Highland Way. Mikey is a tall man with thick brown hair, a thin, chiseled face, and eclipsing brown eyes that highlight a brief wandering in their resting position. He’s the type of guy you see coming a mile away – his features are lost in the distance, but no one else walks with that broad sway of the hips and arms swinging low like a primitive cousin.

Then there’s Barry (real name Bryan), a tall but stocky man who’s every limbs looks as thick as an aged tree trunk. His milky white skin in topped by thinning fair hair (arguably blonde or ginger orange) and his face is centred on a broad flat nose that could shelter an unprepared commuter from the rain.

Finally, Danny is a man who’s hair colour cannot be disputed. Short but flowing fiery red hair blends seamlessly with an unruly beard. Relaxed eyes are de-symmetrised by a fading but ever-present purple line scar on his left eyebrow, the remnants of a nasty accident with a bus. He’s tall, muscular, and slightly scary on first sight.

These three guys are those friends without time. These friends are those who joined me on the West Highland Way.

The West Highland Way is a hikers’ that slithers up the from Milngavie, a small town near Glasgow in the central belt of Scotland, to Fort William, a small industrial town on the West coast of the country. From end to end, one hikes through 96 miles of epic munros and hills, countryside tranquility, crystal lakes (or lochs in Scotland), and ancient ruins of times long since passed. We trekked over 5 days.

On the flip side of the almost indescribable beauty of the Scottish Highlands there was the challenge. The journey wasn’t 96 miles in a straight line. Rather, it possessed flat roads, cobbled, streets, lung-piercing elevation, bone-crushing descents, and ankle-crumbling rocks. Every day is almost a marathon in distance to the next stop, and it’s Scotland – it rains…a lot.

My own challenge on this trip came on day 2 of 5. Midway through a scenic hike up the east bank of Loch Lomond – a picturesque and gargantuan lake enveloped by dense woodland and tremendous hillsides – I came pounding down a muddy hillside and caught my right foot on a loose boulder. I stumbled onto my ankle and wriggled myself forward to maintain my upright position. All seemed fine until a mile down the road, still several miles from our next stop, the pain started. My ankle lit up like an emerging beacon of a lighthouse in a dark night. The pain centered on the ball of my ankle and wormed its way to the base of my foot. Each step became tougher than the last. Each step morphed my gate and posture a little more each time, changing me from a military precise marcher, to something resembling Quasi Modo. The pain escalated so quickly that Mikey and I stopped to fashion a walking stick from a fallen tree. Cracking a branch from the dead wooden husk, we measured the branch along my torso and snapped it off to give a stick with a thick base and handle-like top at around chest height where my arm would grip the stick at a right angle.

Feeling like an imposter is not a syndrome. In You Are (Not) a Fraud, learn about the stories, data, and tools behind the Imposter Phenomenon. This is not an Imposter Syndrome book...it's the book that will convince you to ditch the term entirely. — *The book is available now.*

The ability to rest some of my weight on the new walking stick provided undeniable respite…but the pain persisted. The pain grew. After waking up the next day, my leg was in such pain that rolling from side to side when I first woke up brought with it an alarming struggle. I persevered on and began Day 3 as I had ended Day 2, clad with a Gandolf-esque stick and 1.5 working legs. It was on this day that my ailment became more pronounced. I was groaning more with each step and falling further and further behind my friends. Looking forward, I could see them striding at equal and effective pace, laughing and joking as they walked. I, meanwhile, was coming ever closer to tears.

Several pitstops on Day 3 helped me plod along. Following the final pit stop before the final hike to the Bridge of Orchy, the decision was made that Barry and Mikey would pace ahead and secure a strategic pitch for our tent in what was to be a crowded river bank. Danny volunteered to stay with the token cripple of the group and help him (me) to the end. When we set of towards our final destination for Day 3, the pain was there but our spirits were strong. We spoke about our mutually new and exciting married lives, our climbing careers, and shared a few obligatory crude jokes to keep the mood light. All the while, we were surrounded by galloping mountain ranges, each peak staged left then right, one after the other on our path ahead. To look right at them, they appeared in the classic ‘v’ shape of a deep valley. All was well until the military road.

The last part of the last leg on Day 3 involved circumnavigating the base of a formidable munro who’s shape resembled a gigantic elephant’s foot. On this part of the hike, we walked along off-white rock ridden road left from pastimes when soldiers would march and train in the Highlands. Each time we turned a corner, it seemed like the the exact same road stretched out again and again. It was like a horrific and never ending episode of déjà vu.

BAM!

One slight misstep sent an electrical surge of pain from the soul of my foot up the outside of my shin, ending in a crescendo of my scream. My leg had given up. The repetitive strain was too much, even with the stick to support my weight. Danny, remaining steadfast and functional, graciously volunteered to carry my backpack, which no doubt contributed to the unwelcome weight on my foot. Even then, I couldn’t keep up with Danny (who I see was struggling with both bags, shifting mine from one shoulder to the other like a slow-moving pendulum on a grandfather clock).

The stops became more regular as the unforgiving road failed to end. A few miles form the destination, other hiking parties started to take over us, clearly noting our anguish and struggle, asking if we OK. At one point, Danny stood beside me as I was collapsed on the grass at the roadside, giving my leg a rest. A young German couple stopped and offered bandages, painkillers, and assistance. We thanked them kindly and explained that, alas, I was close to painkiller overdose and bandaged up like a mummy. We had no choice but to persevere to the end.

On the 5th (or maybe 500th) turn around a corner, Danny edged ahead again but then stopped. He slowly turned, leading with my bag on the right shoulder, and nodded. Through breathlessness and silent pain, he said, “I think that’s it”. I looked ahead of Danny and saw a pea-sized white image on grassland. It this point, it could have been a mirage but “it”, as Danny described, was the Bridge of Orchy Hotel. The location for dinner and side by side with our tent pitch. We hobbled on.

By this point, I was blinded by sun cream and tears. One more party approached and overtook us. In true Scottish fashion, they offered their kind assistance…and then left me with the remains of their tonic wine with which I could ease my pain. To return the gesture, Danny and I took a swig each. Fueled with a suggestion of alcohol and a dart of caffeine, we descended down to the white pea-sized dot, which evolved into the hotel we were praying for. Mikey met us at the road between the hotel and the campsite, took our bags, and guided as to the tent. Danny and I hugged, holding back the tears, and I thanked him for getting me there. I was broken physically and mentally.

Through the doom and gloom, the campsite was on a beautiful riverside and guarded by the 4-star hotel. We ate like champions and shared stories over delicious wine. It was a memorable evening.

The next morning, the now familiar pain had me in its grip. I made the horrible but realistic decision that I couldn’t possibly make it through Day 4. I left the other three to it. I was alone.

It became exceedingly difficult not to drown in the swell of emotion. The physical pain in my leg was shadowed by the mental anguish at not being able to walk. I was lonely, angry, afraid, and felt like some sort of failure. Had I continued down this mental maze, I would have been lost for good. Instead, armed with a little knowledge about mindfulness and self-esteem, I stepped aside from my current mental state and assessed it objectively:

OK, so you can’t complete one part of the walk today. Is it really that bad? On the bright side, you are resting such that you can take on the final day – four friends together – and step over the finish line in style. By taking a rest today, you are securing the true memories for tomorrow.
How can you make the most of the apparently lost day? You’re not a failure, you’re an opportunist! You are reaching the same Day 4 destination as the other guys, but you’re taking a different route. What can you see? What might you find for yourself? Let’s go!

You often see examples in the movies of someone dying and their soul (a ghostly, floating version of themselves) above the lifeless form. This is sort of how I imagine the mindfulness trick. You are paying homage to the fact that your emotions are emotions and nothing more. Emotions do not always reflect necessity for physical action. You can acknowledge what you are feeling – almost as if in the third person narrative of yourself – and allow it to pass before moving on.

The West Highland Way taught me some other useful lessons, some of which relate to our story of the Imposter Phenomenon. We’ve learned already that comparing oneself to someone else can be as dangerous as it can be motivating. Along the hike, I overtook slower walkers and was my self left to choke on dust as many pairs of walkers scooted passed me. It would have been easy to make snap judgements at each instance – bigging myself up on the takeover, putting myself down when I was overtaken – but I didn’t.

Step back. Consider what you do not know about the situation – how long the person has walked, how old they are, how fit they are, how much they’ve trained, whether or not they’re injured – and acknowledge that ignorance before allowing emotions to make decisions on how you should feel about yourself in that moment. In the moment, in reality, what actually happened was a simple gesture of good will. Every walker going in every direction greeted one another with a passing “hello”, acknowledging their presence, assuring them that someone else is on the path, and enjoying the shared glory of the beautiful scenery. Nothing more…