Playing Dress-Up in the Headteacher’s Office

There’s a quiet hum beneath the surface of my daily life. It’s the low thrum of a persistent, uninvited guest that lives somewhere behind my ribcage: Impostor Syndrome. At 41, navigating my third year as Headteacher, you’d think that feeling might have packed its bags by now. But nope. It’s still here, casually lounging on the furniture, whispering doubts in my ear.

It’s that constant, gnawing fear of ‘being found out.’ The conviction that, at any moment, someone – a sharp-eyed parent, a seasoned colleague, a perceptive student – will look at me and say, “Wait a minute… she doesn’t actually know what she’s doing, does she? She’s just making it up as she goes along!” It’s the feeling that any success is a fluke, any challenge just moments away from revealing my fundamental inadequacy. It’s standing in a position of significant responsibility, a position I’ve worked towards for years, armed with letters after my name – MA, PGDE, PGC Early Years, NPQH, FCCT – qualifications that should, in theory, scream ‘qualified.’ Yet, despite the degrees, the certificates, the fellowships, I still sometimes feel like a child playing dress-up in oversized shoes.

This isn’t a new feeling for me. It’s been a shadow companion for… well, my entire life, it seems. From navigating the awkwardness of early adolescence to stepping into leadership roles, that little voice of doubt has been a constant. And I wonder how much of that is simply… the air we breathe?

As I have written about before, I’m firmly in that “elder millennial”, a micro-generation that’s felt like perpetual beta-testers for life itself. Our coming-of-age wasn’t a gentle unfolding; it was a relentless wave of “unprecedented” global events. Perhaps living through such constant, fundamental shifts makes it harder to feel grounded, to feel like you have a stable platform from which to claim your competence. The world map kept getting redrawn, and maybe that uncertainty seeped into our sense of self.

But layered beneath the generational turbulence, there’s something else, something older and more deeply entrenched: patriarchy. As a woman in a leadership role – especially one historically dominated by men – the impostor syndrome feels amplified, echoing societal biases I may not even consciously register day-to-day. Patriarchy thrives on creating archetypes of power and authority that often don’t look like me. It subtly, or not so subtly, questions women’s competence, their decisiveness, their emotional capacity for leadership without being ‘too emotional.’ When the default image of a Headteacher, CEO, or leader is male, simply existing confidently in that space as a woman can feel, paradoxically, like you’re getting away with something.

Feminism, for me, has been crucial in starting to unpack this. It provides the lens to see that this feeling of inadequacy isn’t just a personal failing, a glitch in my operating system. It’s a systemic issue, a product of centuries where women’s voices have been marginalised, their contributions minimised, and their authority questioned. Understanding the patriarchal structures that underpin these feelings doesn’t magically erase the impostor, but it does help shine a light on its origins. It tells me that the whisper of “you’ll be found out” isn’t just my own insecurity; it’s the echo of a society that has historically doubted women in positions of power.

Leading an international school adds another fascinating dimension. You’re constantly navigating different cultural expectations around leadership, communication, and gender roles. What feels like confident leadership in one culture might be perceived as challenging or even aggressive in another, adding another layer of complexity to the impostor’s favourite question: “Am I doing this right?”

So here I am, still sometimes waiting for the trapdoor to open. The imposter is an uninvited guest, but perhaps the trick isn’t to banish it entirely, which often feels impossible, but to acknowledge its presence without letting it drive. To recognise the external forces – the turbulent times we’ve lived through, the subtle pressures of patriarchy – that might feed it. And to trust, quietly but firmly, the evidence of the years: the relationships built, the progress made, the challenges navigated, the simple fact that the school is thriving under my leadership. The house is still standing, after all. And perhaps, just perhaps, that’s proof enough that the person at the helm is exactly where she’s meant to be.