Why Chinese Students Feel Impostor Syndrome

My student Hillary (not her real name) was a model student by every measure: gifted pianist, exceptional test-taker, dedicated volunteer teacher, and top student in arguably the best high school in her city. But as we brainstormed together for her college application personal statement, she revealed her true feelings beneath her exemplary, enviable veneer: she felt like a big fraud. She felt undeserving of her achievements and hopelessly incapable of attaining the lofty goals that her parents and peers seemed to think were never in question for her.

In short, she suffered from impostor syndrome. And when her hopes were dashed as she received rejection letter after rejection letter from top universities, she must have felt as if her “deception” were finally imploding under its own weight--at once an indescribable terror and a welcome relief. But this is just my guess (having faced crippling impostor syndrome myself back in high school). I don’t know for sure because she never contacted me again.

Hillary isn’t alone--far from it. Numerous studies conducted on impostor syndrome suggest that 70% to upwards of 80% of the American public have experienced it at some point in their lives. Though few (if any) studies focus specifically on Chinese international students, findings suggest that underrepresented groups and those in academia experience impostor syndrome with greater intensity--and Chinese students studying in the U.S. surely fit these characterizations.

In spite of its name, impostor syndrome (now sometimes referred to as a “phenomenon” instead) is not a mental/intellectual disability--that is, some defect on an individual scale. Drawing on the illuminating work of Professor Erin Ninh of UCSB, I’d argue that so many Chinese students experience impostor syndrome because it’s actually a widespread, systemic issue.

At heart, impostor syndrome is about identity. Contrary to conventional thinking, personal identity stems not from our individual qualities, but from how we make sense of our place within our group and how we’re recognized as kindred. In other words, we define who we are based on how well (or poorly) we fit into our group’s perceptions of us.

For Chinese students--some of the most overachieving people on the planet guilt-ridden by their parents’ financial sacrifices--their group’s perceptions of them, unfortunately, are extremely narrow. We can sum these up neatly as the success frame, whose elements will be instantly recognizable to the overwhelming majority of Chinese students:

1. Attend a top high school (preferably a private international school)

2. Hire tutors and consultants to guarantee high test scores and a flawless college application

3. Attend a top U.S. university and attain a degree in a “practical” major in business or STEM

4. Attend a top U.S. graduate school (in case you wish to seek employment back in China)

5. Launch a high-paying, highly respected career in business or STEM

6. Get married and start a family

Like horror movies or fantasy novels, it’s useful to think of this inescapable success frame as a genre. I use the term “genre” to mean a patterned set of expectations by which we organize a narrative--in this case, our lives. Just as horror movie buffs can spot jump scares minutes away, Chinese students can rattle off in their sleep exactly what academic and professional objectives need to be accomplished--and precisely when. Because unlike how a transcendent creative work subverts its genre’s tropes, a student’s trajectory has no room for any deviation whatsoever. Upholders of the success frame believe it’s essential for the frame’s goals to be met not only in the exact order listed above, but also in tandem with (or ideally faster than) everyone else’s pace.

And so, “impostors” find conforming to this inexorable success frame truly hellish. They feel trapped by the expectations thrust upon them by those who presumably care about them, terrorized by the fear of being exposed and cast out if they stray from the “plan”--willingly or otherwise. And you know what? Their feelings are absolutely justified!

The success frame, in practice, is a perverse exercise in pruning alternatives. Every step along this idealized path crushes potential aspirations that healthy, unique individuals would and should consider, aspirations like athletic ambitions, creative majors, or nonprofit careers. Ultimately, the success frame hollows us out into husks of unhappy followers and, most insidiously, renders all alternatives unthinkable--leading hundreds of thousands to immense emotional despair and even extreme acts of desperation (such as impersonating Ivy League students).

To Hillary and all the “impostors” out there, know that you’re not alone. And whatever you may be feeling, it’s not your fault. Our parenting styles, education system, and society at large are designed to amplify and perpetuate our sense of inadequacy so that we never feel like we’re good enough. We can never be perfect--that impossible demand the success frame makes on us all.

For more on impostor syndrome and what it means or how it feels to be Chinese (more generally, Asian) American, I strongly recommend Professor Ninh’s eye-opening book, Passing for Perfect.