The Cure for Imposter Syndrome? The Honorary MFA

By Betsy Armstrong

Ten years ago, when I decided to become a writer, I didn’t realize I was signing up to pretend to be a writer while suffering the worst imposter syndrome of my life. I had many reasons to feel like an imposter. On the verge of turning fifty, I had just adopted two Russian orphans, aged ten and twelve, and “retired” from a nonprofit executive role (where I felt, mostly, quite competent) to become a full-time mom who, although I loved these kiddos, hadn’t a clue what she was doing with two, small strangers who didn’t even speak English.

Three anxious months in, after a particularly maddening PTA meeting, I scrolled online, searching for a hobby, a group, anything, where I might access the bright, able part of me muffled by motherhood and unemployment. Revive my childhood piano lessons? Attempt to master Spanish for the fourth time? I wracked my brain and finally allowed the thought, what about writing?

Writing a book had always been my pie-in-the-sky dream, one I’d convinced myself was impractical despite journaling since I was an angsty teenager. Me, becoming a mother at 49 had been improbable, too. But I’d made that happen, so why not try? The only question was how.

Because I tend to go all-out when I decide on a path (hello, sudden, late-life motherhood!) I lost myself in the possibilities, researching MFA programs and imagining my future self: Betsy Armstrong, MFA, with a book to promote and potentially (ridiculously) even teaching writing. Writers are nothing if not dreamers, aren’t we? Eventually I reeled myself in from my fantasy and found a creative nonfiction writing class at StoryStudio in Chicago, where I lived.

A few weeks later, I entered the “Beginning Memoir” class on a January evening. As we introduced ourselves, my peers mentioned journalism degrees, jobs where they wrote all day long, and some even had been published! I mumbled something about thirty years of secret journaling while my face flamed with embarrassment. What in the world was I doing here?

Luckily, the instructor, Jack Helbig, accepted my deficits and worked with me anyway. I learned how to show, not tell, about my kids’ adoption; about our first, failed, adoption attempt; how I’d spent my life ambivalent about having children and what had tipped me into motherhood. I put all my “imposter mama” vulnerabilities on the page and basked in the acceptance of my peers. At the end of six weeks, I signed up for Jack’s next class, and then the next, eventually enrolling in StoryStudio’s first “Memoir in a Year” program. I mustered up the courage to submit a chapter to a literary magazine. It was rejected. Of course, it was! Who amongst us gets published on our first submission? (If you did, don’t answer that.) I took it hard anyway.

Flash forwards a few more years and I’d produced a sprawling 463-page saga that resisted my inept attempts at editing. I distracted myself by starting applications to MFA programs around Chicago, except…the essay I was supposed to write confounded me. And recommendation letters? Who would ever recommend me? And even if I got in, could I juggle children and school? When I sat with my kids struggling over their homework, even middle school seemed impossible, reinforcing my incompetence at both writing and motherhood.

By now, I’d branched out, enrolling in classes with Writer’s Digest and Creative Nonfiction magazines. I went on writing retreats and applied to attend the Yale’s Writer’s Workshop where, unbelievably, the big-name memoir instructor not only accepted my application, but took me seriously too. I finished an essay class with a prominent essayist whose feedback wasn’t so positive. Ouch.

Realizing my book wouldn’t edit itself, I found a writing coach, Nadine Kenney Johnstone, to work with one-on-one. Together, we pared my manuscript down, and she taught me how to research and query agents. I submitted a piece that made it to the finals in an essay writing contest and – miracle of miracles — was published!

Fueled by this modest success, I completed a year-long program on creating a platform. During the pandemic, I soaked up online classes like a thirsty kid gulping sugary juice boxes, one after the other. Structure, dialogue, and POV classes. Food writing, nature writing, and sports writing. Blogging, copywriting, SEO. I learned. I produced. I submitted. One of my flash pieces was accepted. I won first place (and $500!) in a contest, but I still didn’t feel like a real writer without a book.

One day, seven years into my so-called writing career, talking to Nadine about my imposter syndrome, I asked, “What do you think about me getting an MFA?”

She greeted my question with silence. Then, she said, “Why?”

“Wouldn’t that make me more ‘official’?”

“Betsy,” she said, “Ever since I’ve known you, you are always taking a class. You don’t need it. You’ve already earned an Honorary MFA!”

I absorbed her words, reflecting on my years of writing education. I felt the word “writer” click in my brain in a way it hadn’t before. A warmth spread in my heart just like the first time my adopted daughter called me “Mommy.”

“Yes!” I told her, “I’ve got an Honorary MFA!”

Since then, I’ve quit researching MFA programs. My persistent querying paid off – my memoir will be published in early 2025. The voice in my head that screamed, “Imposter!” has quieted to a whisper I usually ignore. If its volume rises, I know just what to do: take another class, remember my Honorary MFA, and keep on writing. Now, I call myself a writer. Because I am. And you know what? If you’re reading this, you are too.
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Betsy Armstrong is a writer and mom who earned an Honorary MFA from her writing coach. Her essays have been recognized and/or published by Writer’s Digest, The Pinch Journal, and WOW-Women on Writing. Her memoir is forthcoming from SheWrites Press.