Everything Is Fine (And Other Lies We Tell Ourselves in the Process)

By Asuka Conyer

Let’s take a collective deep breath. Maybe a sip of water, too—the kind with the electrolytes if you can, because we’re doing a lot today. Whether you’ve been an educator for years or you’re a fellow recent grad entering the workforce, I invite you to join me in a little moment of gentle reflection.

In the world of Ethnic Studies and non-profit advocacy, we talk a lot about “the work.” It’s vital, it’s heavy, and it’s beautiful. Yet lately, I’ve been thinking about the individual doing the work.

We are living through a time where the news cycle is a constant stream of tragedy. People are being taken from their communities, and everyone is fighting just for the basic right to be seen, heard, and safe. It’s hard to feel like a “poised professional” when your soul is weary from the weight of the world.

I mean, what does a professional even look like?!? Ending up with a fancy-schmancy title like “Director of Development & Programs” at my age really looks a lot like me trying on a lot of different hats until they fit right. 

If you really think of it, we all cope by just “trying” out different things:

• Trying to be caregivers and give ourselves care.
• Trying to figure out how to buy groceries without checking the banking app like it’s a horror movie jump-scare.
• Trying to keep our sanity.
• Trying not to check the news all day to stress over which rights we’re about to lose (omfg?).
• Trying to remember where we left our keys (oh sh*t).
• Trying to make it out the door in time.

You get the gist. “Adulting” in this political climate is like playing a survival game on “extreme” mode. It’s raw, it’s exhausting, and the Imposter Syndrome? Debilitating. It’s not just a feeling; it’s a group of toxic, uninvited guests who only come over to try and convince me that I’ve missed a catastrophe every time I don’t get to that random phone call in time.

To preface: I am not a professional “How to Life” coach or a therapist.

Imposter Syndrome is not a recognized clinical diagnosis or mental health disorder in the DSM-5 The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fifth Edition, Text Revision (DSM-5-TR) or International Classification of Diseases, 10th Revision (ICD). It is considered a psychological phenomenon or experience characterized by chronic self-doubt and unfounded feelings of inadequacy, despite evident success and competence 

Please just take this as the bubbly, sarcastic, and slightly scattered ramblings of a Gen-Z girl trying to process her own journey. If you find a piece of yourself in these words, I’m so glad we can be in this together.

Funny enough, the first time I even learned the term “Imposter Syndrome” was during my first truly embarrassing breakdown in front of my school advisor. University was a lot, okay? (You try having brain surgery during senior finals week—0/10, do not recommend). Ever since then, I’ve been trying to figure out why I feel like I’m cosplaying adulthood, and I’ve realized it usually comes down to a few specific types of “scenarios.”

If you have some time, join me in getting to know each one from what I’ve learned in my own personal journey. Perhaps you might already recognize them!

The Superhero (or: Asking for a Burn-Out)

The “Superhero” brand of imposter syndrome is particularly spicy in the non-profit world. Because the work is “heart work,” there’s this unspoken expectation that if you aren’t sacrificing your entire nervous system for the cause, you’re basically a “sell-out.” It’s that constant wave of guilt that keeps you from being able to say “no,” even when you know your plate is already overflowing. It’s the debilitating pressure of not being capable of being a perfectly present “Superhero” 24/7 especially when you’re looking at everyone else and convinced they are exactly where you think you should be.

For me, that guilt is heavy. After being bedridden for almost a year due to my health decline, and then immediately having to recover from surgery (and, like, yenno, university), I felt like I had missed out on being an active, present member of my community for so long. I lost my independence during a time when everyone I knew was out there “doing the work,” and now I’ve suddenly teleported back into real-life with a doctor’s note. At times, it’s felt like I’m constantly running a race I’ve already lost. Social life as a post-grad feels like I’m trying to re-enter a world that moved on without me while I was just trying to survive.

I have to constantly remind (okay, force) myself to take time to rest. I’m learning that taking a minute to “just be” doesn’t make me a sell-out; it ensures that I can come back even stronger the next day for the fight at hand. So, take that damn nap when you can. Take a day, or even just an hour, to remind yourself of an old hobby you used to enjoy. Remember to reserve time to eat.

To be capable of taking rest is a privilege in our busy lives, but it is also a powerful tool of resistance. The ability to take a pause is an acknowledgment of just how real sh*t gets.

The Perfectionist (or: Death by Typo )

Then there’s the Perfectionist. This is the one that makes me stare at a single email for 45 minutes because I’m worried a misplaced comma will somehow invalidate my entire existence. (I’m looking at you, UW students… #godawgs).

It’s actually hilarious when you think about it. I’m over here spiraling because I used the wrong “your” in a work draft, while I see Established Adults™ every day on my screens who have skeletons in their closets the size of a natural history museum. In my two and a half decades on this earth, I’ve grown too familiar with the “fallacy of adulthood.” Adults before me have told my peers and I time and time again what being an adult should look like: the mistakes to avoid, the tone to use, and the “path to success.” Yet, when they don’t take their own advice, it’s often justified because “they’re wiser.”

If you want an embarrassing example of this syndrome, here’s a fun fact: it took me flunking classes in university due to absences BEFORE I finally asked for help. My silence came from being convinced that admitting the status of my health would decimate the identity I had carefully crafted based on the lessons of adults I encountered in my K-12 experience. The “Adult Path” to success haunts us all: never calling out sick, making it “happen,” and being “respectful” (which really meant: ”Screw your boundaries.”)

At this point I had somehow convinced myself that being prepared for adulthood simply meant not having the time to process the immense fear and the extreme neuropathic pain I was experiencing. 

Pretty nuts, huh?

I serve a non-profit doing the heavy lifting for Ethnic Studies in WA, yet I still sometimes find myself treating a minor typo like a federal crime. Think about your own “perfectionist” mask. How often do we uphold these rigid “Adult Paths” for ourselves. Or worse, for our students? 

Why do we prioritize making moves over actually being well?

Advocacy isn’t just about the external fight; it’s about the internal grace we afford ourselves. When we demand perfection, we aren’t just being “professional”. We’re usually just silencing our own needs. What would it look like if we celebrated the “messy” growth as much as the “polished” result? What if we said “thank you” instead of apologizing for human nature? 

Maybe today is a good day to send that email, ask for that extension, or simply admit you’re tired. I promise the movement won’t collapse just because you took a breath.

Take it from someone insane enough to try taking her final exams days after being discharged from BRAIN SURGERY. Yeah, no. I needed to ask for that damn extension. The point is… don’t be like me.

The Natural Genius (or: Why Isn’t This Clicking?)

If I’m being completely honest, this part is a bit of a confession. I spent my High school years as the ultimate wannabe overachiever: Black Student Union, Running Start, AP courses, ASB..  my GPA determined whether I was about to have a good or bad day.

I was that irritatingly intense “leadership kid” who loved to debate and had a carefully crafted, five-year plan for law and policy work. I was convinced by academic systems that if I just checked all the boxes, I’d be spat out into the adult wilderness as a fully-formed badass.

Then came the undergraduate years where reality hit.  

Mmmm, no. It didn’t just hit; it leveled the building. 

The hardest part (to me) about growing up is having to mourn a future picture of yourself that you grew up imagining. 

Here I was right out of graduation, post-surgery, still learning how to not stutter and fumble over my words. I’d struggle with how to pronounce basic terms, and I had to relearn how to function as an independent adult. My treatment process was an absolute success, but I still had to refamiliarize myself with limbs that felt foreign to me.  Trying to communicate what was happening inside my own body felt like its own special kind of hell. I had already survived almost flunking out of my dream school, and I felt like a complete fraud. I mean, how could I be an “advocate” if I couldn’t even verbalize my own physical experiences? I felt like I was holding an expensive-ass piece of paper that told the world I was qualified, while I was internally surviving on an IRL version of Fear Factor.

I’m sure many of you who have been on this earth longer than I perhaps have giggled at my naivety on occasion in this blog; and honestly? I certainly hope my chaos could bring anyone some joy. 

Looking back, I think it is kind of funny how certain I was about a future I hadn’t lived yet. Meanwhile, finally starting the process of letting go of that version of myself has been the most “freeing hell” I have ever experienced. I’m learning that you don’t have to be a “genius” to be worthy of the work; you just have to be willing to show up, even when your voice shakes and you forget the words.

So, please tell yourself, and any “leadership kids” you might know, that it’s okay to fumble. We all spend so much time trying to draw maps for the wilderness out of fear and what we think we already know, but we rarely take the time to learn what to do when the ink runs in the rain. Forgiving yourself for not being a natural at everything isn’t a failure. It’s the only way to stay present for the long haul.

The Eye of the Beholder: The Art of Not Giving a F*ck

The most important thing I’ve learned since graduating? The delicate, refined art of not giving a f*ck.

Advocacy is truly in the eye of the beholder. There is no “Advocacy Pope” coming down to tell you that your work doesn’t count because you took a mental health day or because your email had a bullet point out of alignment. The past year has been nothing but re-grounding. If I spent all my f*cks on worrying about whether I’m “qualified” in the eyes of some random person who doesn’t even care to know how hard I worked to get where I am, then I wouldn’t have any energy left for the actual things that matter. 

Sometimes, the most radical thing you can do is realize the world is a dumpster fire and choose to preserve your own peace anyway. Advocacy isn’t always just a bold protest or a perfectly worded manifesto; sometimes it’s just showing up as your messy, exhausted self and saying, “I’m here, I’m doing my best, and that has to be MF enough.”

I hope that by sharing out loud a bit, I’ve given you a little space to breathe. If you’re a fellow recent grad or a “leadership kid” in recovery, I’d love to hear what it’s been like. And for any readers who have been on this earth a bit longer than me… if any of this was new to you, then ha! Gotcha! I officially taught you something today. Consider it a little Gen-Z gift from my brain to yours that isn’t a TikTok trend.

Honestly, though, thank you. Thank you for your time, your continued support, and for letting me be a little vulnerable with you today. Thank you for being WAESN’s accomplices in this work, and for letting me share exactly who I am: a slightly anxious, perpetually fatigued, but incredibly about where our journey shall take us.