Imposter for the Win

I had never felt like a bigger fake — winning a karate tournament without landing a punch.

Three years before, as an on-call physician making hospital calls after midnight, I thought taking a self-defense class might be street-smart. Now, facing my sensei’s final test — to participate in a tournament — I thought I might be kidding myself.

Tournament day arrived. Carrying my gear, I walked nervously into the competition venue held at a local high school gym. I immediately spotted a long table displaying gleaming trophies. These were not for participation — each had to be earned. Ceiling lights beamed brightly, shimmering on the tiny gold figurines.

The glossy pine basketball floor was patchworked with crimson rubber mats. In the bleachers, colorful banners marked each dojo’s territory. The smell of popcorn, an unusual choice, filled the air while pulsing music played. The festive competition atmosphere quickened my pulse while moistening my palms.

It felt like walking onto a martial arts movie set. All that was missing was the film crew. And an underdog.

I filled that role. Walking around the massive venue, I felt like a suburban mom playing dress up among elite Olympic athletes. My snow white gi chafed my inner thighs. The black belt, wrapped around my body twice, seemed to cut off my breath. In full gear, my puffy, fire engine red gloves and foot pads, tied on with jet black Velcro, completed the look of a martial arts Michelin man.

With a long, sonorous gong, the matches started. After winning the two earlier rounds against opponents who were as uneasy as I was, it was time for the final round. Surprisingly, my name was on the list. The glittering trophies seemed to taunt me, daring me to prove I deserved one.

I strode onto the competition mat with an air of bravado. My young, lanky competitor faced me. Our ref asked us to bow to each other, as a sign of respect, then briefly reviewed the rules. No blows to the head, no drawing blood, no leg sweeps.

She was so tall and her legs so long, the nickname “Long Legs” leapt into my head. Like the spider. I could almost see my nerve slinking away.

My stomach churned. I was going to get my butt kicked.

Garbed in an ebony gi, our match ref signaled us to start.

My plan? Retreat. I decided I would back up and try to stay out of the way of her alien legs.

That strategy worked for less than a minute. She chased me down, I ducked, she hit me with a roundhouse on my left side. My pride started stinging, along with my torso.

“Point!” yelled the ref, indicating Long Legs won that round.

We backed into our starting positions at the edge of the mat. I decided to keep my arms in a tight block in front of me. She faked a punch. I dropped my fists too late to see her body swivel as she threw a roundhouse kick to my other side.

“Point!”

Back to our starting spots, I tightened my belt and adjusted my gi. Wiping my wet palms on my sleeves, I thought her timing may be affected if I looked like I wasn’t ready.

I wasn’t out of it yet but had to win this next round. I decided to jump kick, the elevation hopefully getting me high enough to reach her waist. This would require pushing off on one foot and kicking with the other.

A flicker of false confidence came over me. Maybe I could prevail? I mustered some courage and charged. Not realizing that feet could be sweaty as well as hands, I lost my balance.

Her timing was perfect. She shot off another roundhouse. In the middle of my self-imposed slip and slide, my head was now at the level of her foot. Her toe collided with my face. I hit the mat like a hooked tuna. Face red from embarrassment, I slowly picked myself up, figuring the fight was finally over.

It was. The ref came over and looked at my eye. Blood had started to seep from a tiny scratch above my eyebrow. He asked if I was alright and put a bandage on it.

Long Legs looked dejected. The ref indicated we were both to stand in the middle of the ring.

“Winner!” he yelled as he raised my bruised arm, blood marking my face.

“What?” I thought in disbelief. I found myself trying to pull my arm down. I just won a fight without scoring a point. Then I remembered the rules. She had kicked my face and drawn blood. Even though unintentional, it was a disqualification.

I won by default.

Struggling to find some glee in this unearned victory, I approached the awards podium. I felt like I was trudging through deep water. Flashing a bogus grin as I received the oversize trophy, I nearly dropped it. Much heavier than I expected, I needed both hands to keep it steady.

Avoiding the crowd and any acknowledgements, I fled the winner’s podium searching for my instructor.

“Congratulations!” he said enthusiastically, giving me a high five.

“Sir, I don’t feel like a winner. I wasn’t as good as my opponent. She should’ve won.” I replied, as my shoulders slumped. “I feel like a phony.”

He paused for a moment, took an audible breath, then nodded for me to sit down in the bleachers. The cool wooden bench felt soothing to my overheated body.

“Let’s look at a few things,” he said calmly. “You don’t feel you deserved to win because your opponent was disqualified?”

I nodded “yes,” with downcast eyes.

“She knew the rules and broke them,” he stated. “She deserved to lose.” If he was trying to make me feel better, it wasn’t working.

“But, she was better, she had me three points to none. She should have won,” I replied, shifting my body uncomfortably on the hard seat.

“How long have you been studying karate?” he asked with patience.

“Three years,” I replied.

“Yes, and you practiced, attended classes and completed proficiency tests at every belt level, right?” He was looking directly at me, his gaze intent, seeking better answers.

“Yes, sir,” I muttered.

He paused. His hands, calloused from years of practice, rested quietly on his lap. And then in a very wise mentor moment softly pronounced, “The work you put in, the time you put in, you earned your right to be here. As much as your opponent.”

It seemed the noise in the gym suddenly evaporated. My jaw unclenched. My shoulders dropped. His words landed more solidly than any kick that day.

Something clicked. My life had been a series of battles to gain respect — from myself as much as others. I believed my inner voice that said I didn’t belong. And it persistently repeated that refrain.

The shy farm girl trying to fit in with popular townies in high school. The medical student without an Ivy League pedigree whose speech marked her blue-collar roots. The physician facing misogynist commentary in corporate boardrooms. These battles look familiar because we’ve all faced variations of them — with others setting the rules of engagement.

We feel the weight of carried dreams and the sting of losing.

We believe in the imposter syndrome because we tell ourselves that we are not good enough or we let others frame it for us.

Putting in the time, study and dedication staked my claim. I had met the challenges required to be in this arena just like I had met them to be in the school room, the exam room, and the board room.

The lights were switching off as I left. One rhythmic click after another echoing against the empty walls as the sound of footsteps faded.

Walking through the heavy double glass doors, I imagined wearing a prize-fighter’s shiny cape, tied around my neck. As a breeze blew past me, the cape fluttered. I straightened my shoulders and lifted my gaze, bandage intact. Pride welled. I won the fight. No asterisk required.

 

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