staceybooks

For years after I walked out of prison, I wore my past like a hidden scar, tucked away beneath my accomplishments, my leadership roles, and my smile in meetings. I had survived the unimaginable, rebuilt my life from the rubble, and yet, I still heard the voice.

“You don’t belong here.”

That voice, that imposter syndrome, doesn’t whisper, it taunts. It tells you that second chances don’t include you. It tells you that if people knew your story, they’d strip you of every ounce of credibility you’ve fought to rebuild. And post-incarceration, imposter syndrome feels ten times louder. You’re not just questioning your skills or your worth, you’re wrestling with a system that told you you were nothing, and now, you’re daring to believe otherwise.

Let me be real with you, imposter syndrome hit me hardest not when I had nothing, but when I started succeeding.

When I was asked to lead programs,

When I sat at tables with decision-makers,

When people called me a nonprofit executive, a change agent, or a leader.

A small part of me wanted to shout, “Do you know where I’ve been? Do you know what I’ve done? Are you sure you want me here?”

But here’s what I’ve learned, your past may shape you, but it doesn’t shrink you, unless you let it.

Here’s How I Began Breaking Free from Imposter Syndrome

1. I Named It

I stopped pretending I was just dealing with nerves or humility. No, I was disqualifying myself from rooms I had earned the right to be in. I had to call it what it was, imposter syndrome, fed by shame and reinforced by a world that still sees “felon” before it sees “human.”

2. I Grounded Myself in Truth

The enemy will always remind you of what you were. God reminds you of who you are. And I had to get serious about rewriting my internal dialogue. I reminded myself of the work I’ve done, the lives I’ve impacted, and the resilience it took to survive addiction, trauma, incarceration, and still show up every day with purpose.

I wasn’t lucky to be in the room,

I was qualified, and I had paid a price most people can’t even imagine.

3. I Used My Story as My Strength

For a long time, I tried to hide my past. Now, I lead with it. I don’t need people to applaud me, I need them to understand that redemption is real. I stopped letting my story be a secret and started letting it be a strategy. My lived experience is not a liability, it’s my superpower.

4. I Built Community

Imposter syndrome thrives in isolation, but healing happens in community. I found, and built, circles of people who had also walked through fire—other justice-impacted leaders, survivors, and believers. We remind each other that we do belong, that we are enough, and that our seat at the table is not a favor. It’s a right we fought for.

5. I Let My Work Speak Louder Than My Doubts

When I doubted myself, I went back to the mission. To the mom getting her kids back. To the graduate walking out of prison with a job offer. To the young man learning code in a cell because someone, maybe someone like me, decided he was worth investing in.

Imposter syndrome can’t survive in the face of impact. Every time I help someone else believe in their future, I remember I deserve mine too.

If you’re justice-involved and struggling with imposter syndrome, I want you to know this:

You don’t have to prove you’re worthy, you already are.

You’re not an imposter, you’re evidence that people can change, grow, and rise again.

Your past didn’t disqualify you, it refined you.

Your scars didn’t break you, they branded you with purpose.

And if that voice ever creeps back in, remember this:

The real imposters are the doubts in your head, not the leader, warrior, and survivor you’ve become.

— Stacey Books

Nonprofit Leader, Mother, Hassy, Wife, Overcomer, No longer hiding!