John Mollura hid a letter from the Department of Defense in a desk drawer for ten years.
It wasn’t a reprimand. It was a letter of commendation.
—
In 2005, John was a test engineer supporting the military. His team had spent years on a project that looked close to impossible. John played a key role in making it happen. More than twenty years later, it’s still out there doing its job.
The company held a ceremony. The president and executive staff would hand out letters of commendation, one by one, in front of everyone.
John’s last name falls in the middle of the alphabet. As his turn got closer, his vision started going black around the edges. His heart pounded. He felt wobbly.
And a voice in his head got very loud.
They’re going to realize you don’t deserve this. When you get up there, the president is going to pull it out of your hand.
He doesn’t remember walking up. He doesn’t remember shaking hands.
He remembers leaving before the reception afterwards.
He put the letter in a manila folder, stashed it in the deepest drawer of his desk, and didn’t take it out for more than a decade.
—
If you’ve ever been recognized for something important and instead of feeling proud, you felt like a fraud, you know that feeling.
Back then, John didn’t have a name for it.
So he did what a lot of high performers do. He took on harder projects, riskier tests, more demanding missions.
Nothing seemed to be enough.
Each new accolade just stacked the house of cards higher. And with each success, there seemed more to lose if someone found him out.
That’s the cruelest part of imposter syndrome. It’s a hole that no achievement can fill.
No promotion, salary or award seems to be enough. The goalposts just keep moving.
—
Years later, at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, John was waiting for a coworker outside a changing room where people suited up in white coats to work on spacecraft (just like in the movies). A flyer advertised a symposium on imposter syndrome. Something about the phrase caught his interest.
On the walk back to the car, he asked a coworker about it.
She told him: it’s when you’re a high performer and feel like a fake.
John stopped walking.
“Wait. You mean this is a thing? It’s not something wrong with just me?”
“No, John,” she said. “This is a thing. But no one talks about it.”
It was such a powerful moment. It’s what it feels like to be seen for the first time.
—
John approached the job of improving his imposter syndrome like an engineer. The first task was to collect data, so he started collecting data on himself.
After meetings that went badly, he ran his own postmortems. He learned to notice his body warning him before he snapped at someone, and to pause and respond instead of react.
Out of that self-investigation came what John now calls the Navigators: the voices that steer us when we’re on autopilot.
The drifter, who suddenly needs to clean the desk before doing the hard thing.
The blamer, who’s sure the world is happening to them.
The critic, who knows all your secrets and uses them to build a case against you.
These voices don’t disappear. The goal is to notice which one has the controls.
When the blamer shows up, John asks one question:
What’s my 1%?
The idea is that I probably contributed at least 1% to my current predicament. Not to make myself feel guilty, but to get some agency back. If I had some part in where I landed, I may have some power over where I go next.
When the critic shows up, he asks a different question:
What would a camera have recorded?
John shared an example from that very morning. A potential coaching client had written to say someone else was a better fit.
That was the data.
The drama was everything his critic piled on top: I’m bad at this. I can’t connect with people. I’ll never land another client.
John coaches this and has written a book on it. Yet he still has to catch himself doing it.
Listen for the critic’s favorite words, too: always, never, everyone, no one.
“I always mess this up” is almost never true. Challenge the critic with one time you followed through.
—
There’s one more idea I want you to take with you.
Confidence is the product of action. It isn’t the prerequisite.
Most of us wait to feel ready, then wait some more. John’s advice is to act while you’re scared and let the confidence follow.
If you can’t find the belief in yourself yet, borrow it. When someone you trust sees something in you and asks you to lead, believe them until you can believe it yourself.
—
Here’s something else you can try this week.
The next time someone compliments you, don’t deflect. Don’t mention the sale price of your shoes or credit the whole team.
Smile. Say thank you. And smile again.
It felt strange for John at first. It felt strange for me, too. My wife had to teach me that one.
Deflecting a compliment is a small unkindness to the person who offered it. It’s like handing back a gift.
There’s much more in this conversation, including what it’s like to be an introvert everyone mistakes for an extrovert, and why the events where John looks most confident are the ones that drain his social battery the most.
If you’ve ever held a win at arm’s length, this one is for you.
Connect with John:
Let It Fly (book)
Free Navigators Masterclass
LinkedIn
Website
Greg, the letter in the drawer makes the cost of this so clear. John had evidence that he had done something valuable, but each harder assignment became another chance to prove it again. I appreciate you including the coworker who gave the experience a name. She offered something another award had not been able to give him.