I never really thought imposter syndrome lived inside my brain. It implies one should care what complete strangers might think of you, which I don’t. Or sometimes it manifests as comparison to the point of envy of other people, which I’m not. But it’s also about minimising your own value, which I probably do quite often.

I recently judged Withington Girls School art competition. When asked to do so, I initially said no; I’m shy, partially deaf, and find echoey school buildings awfully overwhelming. I also felt completely underqualified to pass judgement on somebody else’s art. The teacher did not share my concerns; it wouldn’t take long, we could do everything over email, she’ll be in touch with competition entries. And so, it seemed I was to judge this thing. I was nervous.

I was asked to send a quick little video rallying the troops, or inspiring something. Gosh. There’s a reason I’m slow to add kits to my online shop and it starts and ends with having to make videos. I never listened to it back, so I’ve not much of any idea of what I said to them. There’s something unsettling about hearing one’s voice recording. My voice is significantly higher on a recording than it sounds inside my own brain. My accent also sounds broader, which makes me feel like it’s a completely different person. The voice pitch could be attributed to different acoustics inside my head, but the accent- what is that about?

The art arrived by email and it was lovely. The theme was birds, but the interpretation of the topic was broad. There was some incredible drawing, painting and sculpture. There was also cosplay, costume design, embroidery, digital art, and a video. Some had literally drawn a bird, while some had some politics to express about immigration; anger at the Tory government and the Daily Mail; interpretations of the expectations of being female and their opinions on feminism. The pupils of Withington Girls School are going to make the world a better place one day.

So I had to actually judge these people, all with their incredible ideas and commentary. I felt underqualified. I didn’t want to crush anybody’s hopes. Art is subjective. Just because I like it, or think it’s clever, doesn’t mean anything, really. I winkled my way into giving away more prizes than I was told I could- there were different levels with winners and commended. I upped that commended list, without really asking if I was allowed to.

The teacher asked to see what I planned to say about my winners ahead of time. Among the group, I had picked some political ones. Perhaps she was worried I would voice stronger condemnation of the Tories and racist newspaper articles even than portrayed in the art. It was honestly tempting, but I danced an appropriate line.

And then came the task of making another video. Pidgeon wouldn’t leave me alone that day, so we appeared together. Perhaps he felt I needed moral support? The subject is Birds, so at least we were on theme. Hopefully I’d look like a proper artist embracing the topic, rather than a grown woman in need of an emotional support animal. For once the fear wasn’t so much that I was in the video, but that I had to give commentary on somebody else’s work. It was really important to me to lift these people up, not with empty compliments, but honestly tell them how they’ve impressed me. Because that’s the thing about imposter syndrome, isn’t it; it spreads; you can’t allow your insecurities to weave their doubts into somebody else. Confidence was a bit of a dirty word when I was a teenager. You were looked down on for being so. It’s insane how pervasive that was. So it was rather cathartic to big up these teenagers.

The teacher genuinely liked my video. She thought I did a good job, and I felt like I did too. Aside from the associated anxiety, I didn’t expect to get much out of the experience for myself. But it was lovely to see so much skill and intelligence from these young artists, unafraid to express themselves, to talk about challenging and complicated topics and to get involved. We’re all valid, and we’re all an example to somebody else. So, in the words of Patricia Van Den Akker, let’s put on our big girl pants and get on with it.