Dan says he admires me for sticking it out in New York City for as long as I have. Come to think of it, lots of people marvel at the fact that I’ve scraped together a living as an artist for decades in a really competitive industry. I’m told my confidence is astounding. I’m always flummoxed by these compliments. As many theater jobs as I’ve had, I have tiptoed into every first day of rehearsal, waiting for the axe to fall.
From my first day in ballet class at 10 years old until fairly recently, I have always been afraid it will be discovered that I don’t belong. That I’m not talented enough, smart enough, clever enough, or interesting enough to maintain the job I’ve been hired to do. Kelly once asked: “Then why do you think you continue to get hired?” My reply? “Because I’m responsible.” For much of my professional career, I hung my hat on being the company member who would always be on time, would always know my lines, would perform sick or injured, able to follow direction to the syllable. Sure, there is something to being reliable. However, what I’ve been realizing in the last decade or so is that this hyper-responsible part of my persona has been eating away at my joy. Being a few minutes late due to subway congestion, or flubbing a line would break me out in hives. I thought I was fucking up the one thing that made me a desirable hire. Despite stellar reviews, and collaborators who’ve repeatedly wanted to work with me, why have I convinced myself that they only want me for my consistency?
I recently attended a Yale School of Drama Alumni party. I arrived at the already packed venue, and quickly found a friend - James Bundy, dean of the Yale School of Drama since 2002, and my one time director. After a bit of catching up, and speaking about how the school has evolved since I attended, James casually mentioned his Incoming Student Impostor Syndrome speech. I gasped. “Say more about that right now!” James told me that on the first day for every incoming class, he tells them about how he sat in one of those very seats on his first day at the Yale School of Drama in 1992, convinced he would soon be discovered as not talented enough to have been accepted to the prestigious directing program. He now asks each incoming class to raise their hands if they feel the same way. He cautions that it is a syndrome, not an illness, and is a common feeling amongst high achievers. He reminds them that he has read through each of their files and as competitive as that program is, it is clear from his research that they are competent, talented, and beloved by peers and former teachers. How I wish someone, anyone, had mentioned this on my first day at Yale. I confided that I spent the first of my three years there making myself as small as possible, hoping they’d forgotten about me and wouldn’t realize they’d made a massive mistake in accepting me.
The concept of Impostor Syndrome has only recently become viral in the zeitgeist. Though it has always existed, I think the feeling was considered a failing, a taboo, like discussing money. I’ve become increasingly curious and vocal about this. Not in a “please tell me I belong” way, but in an “I’m a little terrified, and just want to be truthful about that before diving in” way. Invariably, cast mates are grateful for the honesty and express the same feeling. I find this actually allows for more immediate creativity and collaboration in the rehearsal process. It lessens the compulsion to prove oneself. Courage is not the absence of fear, but soldiering on in spite of it. Increasingly, I find that people in just about any field are attracted to authenticity. We’ve all been subjected to blowhards who think they are god’s gift. But isn’t it the well-prepared, slightly panicked person who admits “I’m a little nervous,” before beginning their speech that makes us lean in? We recognize ourselves in that anxiety. And whether we name it or not, we appreciate the frankness.
When Dan invited me to the Clotine hosted Miami/Dubai Palm Beach Chapter Kick Off Event late last year, I believed I had no business being there, nothing to contribute. But on my recent quest to say “yes” more, I accepted. I wore a gifted, silk Diane Von Furstenberg jumpsuit and a pair of black stilettos I wear when I want to feel powerful. Thankfully, Kelly was by my side again, easing me into an event that even five years ago would have required a Klonopin to get through. I did my best to mingle, introducing myself to various people. Many seemed perfectly at ease, in their element. But several seemed just as nervous as I, and appeared relieved when I instigated conversation. I was not the only one wondering if I had anything to contribute to the evening.
Come to think of it, that Yale Alumni event where I first spoke to James about his speech to the first year students? In the past, these invitations sent me into anxious fits that left me vacillating between “go, you may reconnect with someone wonderful,” and “no one will even remember you.” But this time, strangely, I didn’t question. I RSVP’d my yes, donned my killer stilettos, and a Tahari jumpsuit I bought on ThreadUp (I’m realizing just now Imay have a thing for fancy jumpsuits). I spent the night feeling unusually comfortable speaking with a few lovely people I’ve worked with over the years. I spent much of the evening joking with an old cast mate - a famous Broadway actor I was certain was indifferent to me - but if that was the case, why did he spend much of the evening reconnecting with me?
I have had the good fortune of being invited to a few dinner parties recently, hosted by good friends, but attended by many people I’d only met in passing. These parties included medical doctors, infectious disease specialists, leaders in the media world, professors, fancy actors - incredibly intelligent, accomplished people. And at each of these parties I had a flash of a realization, fleeting, but strong and new. It wasn’t even that I was holding my own. I was contributing. Humor. Observations. Experience. And I wasn’t worried I was rambling. I wasn’t anxious that I couldn’t keep up. AND I had a marvelous time. What has changed? Is it age? Experience? My sometimes soaring estrogen (I’ve been tested, its a problem)?
What I’m realizing is that hand in hand with age and experience is that diamond called authenticity. Think of your favorite actor, or writer, or public speaker. What makes them magnetic? Someone who is willing to be exactly who they are, mess and all, is alluring. We trust people who seem supremely themselves, devoid of airs, having the courage to admit where they fear they may be lacking and showing up anyway. It’s a lifelong lesson, and one I’ve only recently embraced. Imagine what we could accomplish if we welcomed this sooner…
.webp)
