I’ve written often about the difficulties of rebuilding a life after incarceration. But there is another, less visible burden that accompanies the formerly incarcerated, even after they’ve regained some measure of acceptance in their communities. I’ve been thinking about that lately, and about the persistent fear of having one’s past unexpectedly resurface.
THE IMPOSTOR
The word impostor is derived from the Latin word imponere, which means “to deceive” or “to place upon.” My mother believed that Latin was the core derivation of English and required all of her children to take at least three years of it in high school. She would demonstrate this whenever the opportunity arose, leaving the dinner table only to return a short while later, carrying her thick, beaten-up Webster dictionary, almost always finding the Latin root of whatever word one of us had used incorrectly.
I’m not sure she would have been proud of my recent search for the derivation of impostor. She would have been appalled had she been alive when I was sentenced to federal prison for financial malfeasance. Malfeasance, derived from the Latin word malefacere, which means “to do wrong.”
Then there is the concept of impostor syndrome, a psychological phenomenon where high-achieving individuals experience internal feelings of being a fraud. People with this syndrome fear being exposed as incompetent, despite having proven qualifications and success. I experienced that during the heady days of my business career. Before the fall and my incarceration.
Then, for the formerly incarcerated seeking redemption and community forgiveness, there is another kind of impostor syndrome. The fear that no matter what good works, community service, restitution, apologies, or restoration, their history in the criminal justice system remains a hair’s breadth from exposure at the least expected moment. The fear that their criminal justice history resurfaces at the wrong time, just when that history has been relegated to the forgotten past and is no longer a factor in their relationship with their community. So that every one of us carries at all times a subconscious dread of exposure that will derail our hard-earned communal forgiveness.
As a result, we deliberate (deliberare, “to weigh”) over every potential social interaction and vacillate (vacillare, “to waver”) before committing to even the most worthwhile community projects. The prospect of our “outing” is always a factor in every one of these decisions. And, unfortunately, that feeling never goes away, and we live in constant trepidation: trepidation, “a feeling of fear, alarm, or agitation about something that may happen,” derived from the Latin trepidare, “to tremble.”
Justice Notes is an ongoing series examining incarceration, rehabilitation, storytelling, institutional power, and the lives that exist behind prison walls.
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John, thank you for sharing another deeply personal and thought provoking piece. As always, I find myself moved not only by your honesty and willingness to be vulnerable, but also by your ability to articulate experiences and emotions that I suspect many people struggle to put into words.
What particularly resonated with me was the distinction between having once been an impostor and continuing to feel like one, even after accepting responsibility, making amends, and working to rebuild a meaningful life. There is something profoundly painful about the possibility that others might continue to define us by our worst decisions, regardless of the people we have become.
From a psychological perspective, I also found myself thinking about the distinction between guilt and shame. Guilt concerns what we have done, while shame can become embedded in how we perceive ourselves. Even when others have extended forgiveness, accepting that forgiveness within ourselves can be an entirely different struggle.
There is, however, one observation I would gently challenge. You write that the feeling of trepidation never goes away. While I certainly understand why that might reflect your experience, I would hope that it need not be an inevitable or permanent condition. There is an important distinction between knowing that our past can resurface and continuing to live emotionally imprisoned by the possibility that it will. Perhaps part of genuine redemption involves gradually allowing ourselves to believe that we are entitled to move forward without constantly anticipating rejection or judgment.
I also found myself reflecting on the paradox you describe. Society asks individuals who have been incarcerated to rehabilitate themselves, contribute meaningfully, and rebuild their lives, yet often makes it extraordinarily difficult for them to feel secure in doing so.
Your writing continues to remind me that redemption is not simply about being forgiven by others. It is also about finding a way to extend that same forgiveness and compassion to ourselves.
Thank you, John, for continuing to share these reflections. I find considerable strength and humanity in your words, and I believe they offer something meaningful to anyone who has ever struggled to reconcile their past with the person they are trying to become.