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Imposter Syndrome

A vulnerable exploration about my thought struggle with imposter syndrome.

Brenda McKenzie

6/30/20262 min read

The Hardest Brushstroke...

Of all the stages of creating a painting, the hardest one for me isn't the sketching, the layering, or even knowing when to stop.

It's signing my name.

Every time I reach for that paint pen, a cruel little voice begins to whisper.

"Who do you think you are?"

"Isn't this vanity?"

"Your name isn't important enough to belong on something beautiful."

It's strange, really.

That voice remains mostly silent through the hours of preparation. It doesn't object while I'm carefully sanding and priming a surface. It doesn't speak up as I thoughtfully plan composition, consider color temperature, balance values, or build layers of paint. It says nothing while I spend days—or sometimes weeks—laboring over the details.

It remains quiet all the way up to the finish as I am applying the final coat of varnish. Because craftsmanship matters. Because quality matters. Because I want what I create to endure.

But when it comes time to sign my name?

That's when it the cruel and insidious voice of the imposter invites itself in.

The same thing also happens when I need to price my work.

Not because I don't know what the materials cost. Not because I haven't invested the time. Not because I don't care deeply about creating something meaningful and well-made.

It's trying to name a value for my labor and passion, while making it approachable to people who find it beautiful enough to bring it into their homes.

How do you place a number on the hours spent preparing surfaces, studying light and shadow, mixing colors, solving compositional problems, and beginning again when something isn't working? How do you quantify the years spent learning, practicing, failing, and growing?

The practical side of me understands that artwork has costs, that time has value, and that artists deserve to be compensated for their work.

But somewhere deeper, the question becomes more personal.

If the painting has value, does that mean I do too?

And that is where the struggle begins.

That's when I start to feel small.

That's when the doubts creep in.

That's when I wonder whether I have earned the right to call myself an artist at all.

Yet in those moments, another voice begins to speak over the suggestions of doubt being planted by the imposter.

A gentler voice.

A truer voice.

The voice of my Heavenly Father.

He reminds me that my identity was never meant to be found in my accomplishments, my sales, my skill level, or the opinions of others. My worth is not determined by whether a painting hangs in a gallery, sells for a certain price, or receives praise.

My worth was settled long before I ever picked up a paintbrush.

The signature isn't a declaration of my importance.

It's simply an acknowledgment of stewardship.

God entrusted me with creativity, with experiences, with stories, with the ability to see beauty and reflect it back into the world. Signing my name isn't claiming glory for myself. It's taking responsibility for the work I was given to do.

In many ways, a signature is an act of gratitude.

It says, "I showed up. I used the gifts I was given. I completed the work before me."

And perhaps that is enough.

So I keep signing.

Not because I believe my name is extraordinary.

But because I belong to the One who is.

And when my identity is anchored in Him, I no longer have to shrink from the work of my own hands.

I can simply offer it back to the One who inspired it in the first place.