Gargi (The Slippery Slope of Imposter Syndrome)

Written by Gargi Sharma

As someone afraid of heights, I often challenge myself, willingly or unwillingly, to scale them. Sometimes these adventures go well; other times, not so much. In February this year, while climbing up a hill, I tumbled down a slope of anxiety that took me many days to recover from. It was the worst I have had. 

I was in Ladakh for some work. On a particular Sunday, I had taken the day off. I was sipping some piping hot chai near the bukhari, a traditional Ladakhi fireplace. The owner of my homestay, Rinchen Aunty, suggested that I go to the Stok monastery festival. It is a holy spectacle, where the monks dance and the oracles come to bless people. A quick search on the internet showed some appealing photographs and touted the festival as one not to be missed. I was convinced to go. I called my reliable taxi guy, Konchok le, to pick me up at 10 am. 

Since it was a Sunday, I was feeling lazy. I took my sweet time to get ready and finish my chores. While eating some fresh khambir bread, Rinchen Aunty asked if she could come along. She had never been to the monastery and was excited by the prospect of having to finally visit! I was more than happy to oblige. Good company is always welcome and Rinchen Aunty seemed full of stories about the festival. 

We finally left at 11 am and reached by noon. To say that the place was jam-packed would be a gross understatement. It seemed as if the whole of Leh had descended to Stok monastery! I had grossly underestimated the popularity of the festival, thinking only tourists would be interested in something like this. There were people everywhere- on the road, inside the monastery, on the hills. Naively, we went inside the monastery hoping to find a spot to sit or even stand, but people had arrived at the venue early. 

“Kya karrein ab? What should we do now?” I asked Rinchen Aunty. 

“Wahin chalna padega. We will have to go there,” she said, pointing to the hill. 

Immediately my heart sank and my mind went haywire! Usually, I wouldn’t have minded going up the hill, but this one looked rather unstable. There were so many people that the possibility of things going wrong was immense. 

However, I replied in a feeble voice, ‘Haan chalo. Let’s go.” 

I don’t say it was a graceful climb, but with Rinchen Aunty’s help, we found a vantage point next to a rock. I thought I could finally relax and that the worst was over, but my mind had already slipped out of my control. It was tumbling down. Once we sat down, I couldn’t help but notice how with even the slightest of movement, small stones and soil would slip from under my feet. I was petrified, to say the least. All I could do was observe how people were climbing down the hill to strategise my exit and gain some confidence. 

Around me, it looked as if this was business as usual. People, young and old, were sitting on the hill nonchalantly, busy greeting others. I could not fathom how people were sitting in narrow squats, that were too on the edges of the hill! Ama le were passing around momos and carrying tea flasks as if this was routine. Kids were zooming from one end to another to get some cotton candy. Certainly, their knees were bulletproof. Here I was frozen in my spot. The comparison had killed even the little confidence that I had. 

I don’t remember much about the two performances that we saw before I gave up. The music was ominous, or perhaps it seemed so. I think we sat at that hill for an hour and a half. To me, it felt like a lifetime because I had lost track of time while dealing with anxiety. The weather had also changed dramatically and it looked like snow was finally going to fall in Leh. Rinchen Aunty had sensed my discomfort and suggested that we go back. The descent down the hill was another ordeal but the relief I felt when I put my foot on the road was indescribable. 

But the thing about anxiety is that it manifests itself in different forms of emotions. Feeling guilty, I kept apologising profusely to Rinchen Aunty for wasting her time. She reassured me that she was satisfied with just visiting the monastery and praying. 

On the way back I was incredibly silent and the guilt had shifted its shape into self-doubt. My brain decided to attack my choice of profession, “There, there! I cannot believe you chose this profession. You can’t even climb a mountain and you call yourself a conservationist?! Conservationists are supposed to be adventurous, fit and not afraid of heights! I think you should change your field and accept your defeat.” My brain was playing with my imposter syndrome. 

You see, I am not a conventional conservationist, like most of my peers. I am not a biologist or an ecologist. I did not grow up with a passion for wildlife. My upbringing did not involve visiting jungles, or bird watching. We were an urban family through and through, making ends meet. I did not know that one could be a conservationist and get paid for it, for the longest time. It seemed like a profession for the elite. My interest in nature conservation was sparked by compulsory environmental education in our school, and of course, NatGeo documentaries. Whatever I had learned about conservation had mostly been on the job and my master’s in human geography which taught me to question the social consequences of conservation practices. While I know that only biologists or ecologists don’t make conservationists, this field has very few examples of social scientists who are also conservationists. Keeping professional attributes aside, my personality felt too homely for conservation. I always felt pressure to be adventurous, being out there in nature and living on a whim. Not to say that I don’t enjoy the outdoors, but I do love a quiet wind-down time where I cook, read, sleep and spend time with my family and friends. Spontaneity doesn’t come naturally to me. To me, my interests seemed contradictory to what a stereotypical conservationist looks like. I began doubting my place in this field. 

In the evening I called my mentor and shared what had happened. She listened to me patiently and said, “Conservationists come in all shapes, sizes and spirits. There is no fixed type. You are a conservationist because of your values to respect and conserve nature.” 

I finally let out a sigh of relief. It had been a long day. I was tired, but the spirit to go on had been rekindled. I wasn’t an imposter. A bullet was dodged and here I am after many months, still a conservationist, planning to move to a place with loads of peaks and scaling them, successfully and unsuccessfully.

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