You hear a lot these days about Impostor Syndrome—that feeling that you don’t really belong, that your success is a fluke, and that any minute now, someone will burst in and say, “We’ve found you out!”
But here’s the thing: I don’t have it. Not even a little.
And I owe that to my mother.
Every scribble I brought home from school, every macaroni masterpiece or spelling test with more red ink than correct answers—she’d look at it like it belonged in a museum. “It’s brilliant,” she’d say. “You’re a genius.” Now, was she a bit biased? Probably. But that steady stream of praise turned into something else: confidence. I grew up believing I had something to offer—and more importantly, that I belonged.
Now, let’s talk about Woody Buchman.
Woody? He’s a different story.
He didn’t grow up with gold stars and fridge art. He clawed his way up through lies, manipulation, and white-collar crime. Now, in book # 2, as he tries to go straight—running a legit coffee company, building a new life with Bonnie and the son he never knew he had—he’s haunted not by failure, but by success. Because deep down, Woody wonders: If they knew the truth about me, would they still respect me?
That’s impostor syndrome, Woody-style. It’s not about doubting his ability—it’s about feeling like his new life is a costume he hasn’t earned. And maybe that’s what makes him so compelling: a man trying to escape who he was, while quietly fearing he’ll never really be anything else.
Ken
