From Self Doubt to Self Leadership: Why Women Scholars Must Confront Imposter Syndrome
Many women are celebrated for their achievements while privately questioning whether they deserve them. This is the story of confronting that voice and choosing to lead anyway.
- Lecturer, Social Work , University of Malawi
“Congratulations, Tsogolo, you have appeared on the list of the 100 Inspiring Women in Malawi 2025…”, a WhatsApp message that stirred a mix of emotions. I was filled with joy, but at the same time confused, shocked and wondering “how”? Immediately, I went to the Wealth Malawi page on Instagram and could not believe what was posted. I am surely on the list for 2025! But the question still remained: how was I nominated? What are the criteria to choose one to appear on that list? What have I honestly given back to the community to be recognised as one of the 100 Inspiring Women, among other very influential female figures in Malawi?
I remember pacing in my room, and sharing this with my very close family members and friends. Again, the question still remained, “What exactly had they seen that I could not?”
This was one of those strange moments when joy and self-doubt wrestle loudly in your chest. I was overwhelmed with gratitude, but deep inside, something kept whispering, “You are not worthy to appear on that list”. I knew that voice well. It was the quiet saboteur I’ve carried with me for years; the Imposter Syndrome.
Pauline Clance and Suzanne Imes, in 1978, were considered to be the first to describe imposter syndrome as the internal experience of feeling like a fraud, regardless of one’s accomplishments. Some scholars have highlighted that it disproportionately affects high-achieving women, particularly those from oppressed and/or marginalised backgrounds. It was comforting to know it had a name, but that didn’t make its presence any less paralysing.
When I was awarded the Canon Collins RMTF Scholarship in 2023, I was so excited that my goal to study for a PhD in Social Work at the University of Cape Town, South Africa, where I will eventually share my passion to advocate for the visibility of the role of social workers in disaster risk management and providing mental health interventions in Malawi, was surely going to be achieved. I was going to study in an environment that would be intellectually stimulating and offer many opportunities, yet my insecurities often drowned out the applause.
At the beginning of the second year of my studies in 2025, I watched my peers publish journal articles, present at national, regional or international conferences, take up teaching assistantships and progress with admirable focus in their respective universities. Meanwhile, I felt like I was going in circles, writing, deleting, revising and back to writing. I found myself comparing their wins with my worries, with little voices whispering, “you are not as smart as they are, maybe you got into the wrong institution that does not support you to reach your full capacity”.
Imposter syndrome did not stop with my postgraduate studies. In the professional space, I found myself constantly fighting to be seen, not just as a contributor but as a potential leader. I work harder and show up, yet when opportunities for leadership, managerial roles, or project leads arise, I hesitate to raise my hand. This is what women go through, even with the required qualifications. On rare occasions, women apply, and many re-read applications with a critical eye, second-guessing whether they have overstated their abilities. Even in rooms where they entirely belong, the weight of imposter syndrome can make them shrink. This struggle is not individual but shared across Southern Africa, where women face the same invisible ceiling, compelled to constantly prove themselves in spaces where men’s competence is assumed but women must be defended. These struggles expose systemic gendered expectations, institutional cultures that marginalise women and the broader fight for equity in leadership, where recognition remains a hard-won battle.
Then came the unspoken comparison within my own circles among family, friends and community. I am not yet married. I do not have children. Family gatherings sometimes feel like silent performance reviews where milestones are measured in wedding rings and baby bumps. You will have that one aunt ask “Nde tivina liti (when we are going to have a celebratory dance?)” with a gentle but judgmental smile and eyes. Each time, I smile while holding back my sarcastic clapback, “Dekhani (relax) but deep down, I am swallowing the sting of being seen as unfinished. For unmarried or childless women, such scrutiny can feel like running a race they never entered. This experience is not unique to Malawi but across Southern Africa. In a Tanzanian study, non-married women showed higher depression rates, which were at 16.5% compared to those of married women, who reported at 7.9%, revealing how systemic norms compound psychological vulnerability. These expectations are not neutral; they are mechanisms of patriarchal power that shape women’s identities and constrain their recognition and contributions to society.
Among friends too, there is this quiet sense of misalignment. Some have chosen different paths, which I admire but often make me question my own. I wonder whether my academic and professional ambitions are standing in the way of also experiencing other social aspects of my life. As women, we find ourselves negotiating similar questions when we see our peers pursuing marriage, motherhood or different careers, and we may feel out of step with dominant timelines of success. Such moments of self-doubt reveal how personal choices are constantly measured against social expectations.
But the hardest voice to silence is the internal critic. This voice is cunning; it insists that our ideas are not innovative enough, that others are more articulate, more confident, more credentialed, thus more deserving of leadership. It tells women to wait, to observe, to support quietly in the background rather than claim visibility. It is a cruel internal voice. Even when women mentor others and encourage them to take up space, they often struggle to grant themselves the same permission.
Research has shown that imposter syndrome can significantly impact mental health, leading to increased anxiety, depression and burnout, particularly among high-achieving students and professionals. This aligns with what I have and still experience sometimes. The mental toll of constantly questioning your inner worth as a female is not just exhausting, it’s debilitating.
In 2024, women reported higher levels of imposter syndrome compared to men, particularly in academic and professional settings. This disparity is not simply due to individual psychology but is rooted in systemic inequalities in access, representation and recognition.
Over time, I have come to understand that imposter syndrome is not just a personal feeling but a socially conditioned response to environments that have historically excluded women, especially African women, from leadership, knowledge production and recognition. The pressure to be exceptional, to constantly prove worth, to be everything to everyone is not natural; it is constructed and exhausting. Across Southern Africa, feelings of inadequacy mirror structural realities: patriarchal norms that judge women’s value by marriage and motherhood, underrepresentation in higher education leadership and economies that undervalue women’s intellectual labour. Naming this link reframes imposter syndrome as a resistance to systemic inequality.
But here is what I am hearing: the power to lead does not begin when the doubt disappears. It begins when you lead despite it.
Slowly, I have started talking back to that voice, as should any woman. We can begin to challenge that inner critic by talking back to the voice of doubt. Strength can be found in vulnerability and in opening up to fellow women scholars or colleagues, where many discover they are not alone in these experiences. There is immerse solidarity in hearing someone say, “me too!” and in recognising those words not just as comfort but as a form of collective resistance.
As women, start owning your wins, no matter how small, publishing an article after months of drafts, completing a chapter section or being shortlisted for an opportunity. Each step is progress. Reframing self-talk from “I am not ready” to “what would it take to try?” turns hesitation into action and slowly, “try” becomes “do”.
Professionally, many women can advocate for themselves with confidence, applying for roles once seen as “above them” and mentoring others to overcome self-doubt. They also make peace with being unconventional, rejecting the notion that love, marriage and motherhood are the only valid markers of success. Women need to realise that true fulfillment cannot be standardised, it lies in continuous growth through learning, building and contributing. Progress in the sense becomes self-defined, reflecting women’s courage to pursue purpose beyond socially imposed expectations.
Most importantly, women can begin to believe they are not imposters. Each is a work in progress and like any progress, deserves patience, grace and celebration.
So, here is my call to action, not to myself but every woman who has ever felt like she didn’t belong: stop waiting for permission. Start claiming your space. If the voice of doubt gets loud, surround yourself with women who remind you of your light. If imposter syndrome tried to keep you small, write your truth anyway! Apply anyway! Lead anyway! The power to lead does not come from being fearless. It comes from choosing courage in the face of fear.