Do We Feel Lucky, Punk?

In a previous post, I asked why we accept a system merely because that’s how the system works. Now I’m asking: why do we distrust evidence of our own competence just because that’s how our minds work?

I preached that sermon, or gave that talk, or sang that song, and listeners applauded. Some 30 years after my retirement as a medical practitioner, I still have former patients come and thank me for what I did for them.

Apparently, I was lucky quite often.

Because in my mind, that was all down to luck. In my mind, I feel a fraud. Everyone else may think I’m competent, but I know better.

I’m not alone. There are plenty of us who suspect that sooner or later somebody will discover that we aren’t nearly as capable as they think. Success was luck; mistakes reveal the truth. And because mistakes reveal the truth, we’d better not make any — which is where perfectionism and procrastination join the party.

To paraphrase Dirty Harry, do we feel lucky, punk?

Well, yes we do. Frequently.

It’s called the Impostor Phenomenon.

Impostor phenomenon easily becomes flattering nonsense: If you think you’re an impostor, that proves you’re brilliant! It plainly doesn’t. Sometimes we really have attempted something beyond our competence. Sometimes criticism is justified. Sometimes confidence exceeds ability, and sometimes ability exceeds confidence.

So how should I decide whether or not I am, in fact, competent?

Surely not by confidence alone. Confidence is notoriously unreliable. But neither should I decide by self-doubt alone. Self-doubt is confidence running backwards: it is still giving my subjective judgement privileged status.

What, then, about the judgement of other people?

Many’s the time I have stood at a church door bidding farewell to members of the congregation, and invariably, if they say anything about the sermon, they say, “Nice sermon, thank you, Vicar.” Not once in 20 years has anyone stopped, shaken my hand and said, “That was dreadful.”

So praise is evidence, but how much weight should I give it?

We are often reluctant to criticise bad performance because direct conflict is uncomfortable and social harmony is easier. “Nice sermon, Vicar” may mean that it was a nice sermon. It may also mean, “I can’t think of anything else to say and there are six people waiting behind me.”

But perhaps that points to something more interesting. The problem may not be that we lack evidence about our competence. It may be the peculiar way we weigh it.

Success? Probably luck.

Praise? They’re only being polite.

Twenty years’ experience? Somehow I got away with it.

One mistake?

Aha! At last, the truth!

Perhaps some self-doubt is entirely rational. None of us is as competent as we would like to think, and criticism can be valuable. But if I discount every piece of evidence that suggests I am competent while seizing eagerly upon every piece that suggests I am not, I am hardly making an objective assessment.

So my question remains: how should I decide whether or not I am, in fact, competent?

Suggestions in the Comments, please.