Every community has its own esoteric language—a set of insider codes and references that distinguish those who belong from those who don't. In corporate marketing and sales, dropping names like Neil Patel, Daniel Pink, Simon Sinek, and Brené Brown signals you’re in the know. In the fundraising world, it's all about Dan Pallotta, Penelope Burk, and Mark Pittman. Entering my MFA program, I encountered a similar narrowing of accepted wisdom and revered figures.

As a young college graduate, my favorite authors included J.K. Rowling, Madeleine L'Engle, and a handful of literary figures I had been exposed to in coursework: Louise Erdrich, Leslie Marmon Silko, Flannery O'Connor, Anthony Doerr, and James Joyce. But, in truth, my engagement with many of these literary giants was limited to a short story collection or a single novel. My senior year in college, I sought solace in the YA section of the university library, eager for the escapism those easy-reading adventures provided.

In the MFA program, I was among the youngest students. Many of my peers were seasoned adults with careers and failed relationships behind them, and their chosen refuge was literary fiction. They loved it so intensely that they left their jobs to dedicate a few years to studying fiction and poetry. In contrast, I felt like an imposter—a young woman who simply enjoyed writing, had been told she had talent, and somehow landed a fellowship. In high school, my favorite form of writing was romantic fanfiction. I wasn't particularly interested in emulating Joyce Carol Oates, Flannery O'Connor, Alice Munro, or George Saunders. While I could appreciate the artfulness of their writing – and often deeply enjoyed certain works – my love for literature stemmed more from the escape it offered than from an appreciation of its craft.

To fit in, I felt compelled to feign interest. I quickly learned to navigate the conversations, dropping references to the right authors and pretending to share my peers' enthusiasm for their work. This was the esoteric language of the MFA program, and mastering it was a survival skill. But it came at a cost. I often felt like the biggest fraud, masking my true literary inclinations to blend in.

There are valuable lessons from this experience:

1. Passion Takes Many Forms: My love for writing and storytelling—whether through YA novels or romantic fanfiction—is as valid as my colleagues' passion for literary fiction. All forms of storytelling have their place and value.

2. Be Yourself: While there's merit in expanding one's literary horizons, it’s crucial not to abandon what you genuinely enjoy. Pretending to love something you don’t is unsustainable and ultimately unfulfilling.

3. Find Your Tribe: Perhaps there were others in the program who shared my interests, or maybe there were professors who appreciated different forms of writing. Finding those who resonate with your genuine tastes can be incredibly validating.

Ultimately, my MFA experience left me with less confidence as a writer than when I entered. In hindsight, this shift was beneficial; true mastery comes from recognizing how much there is left to learn. However, the heavy dose of imposter syndrome I internalized didn't dissipate after graduation—it followed me into my career in marketing, a field where I initially felt like a novice. Overcoming these feelings required years of setbacks and growth (and therapy – lots of it). 

As I navigated my career, grappling with imposter syndrome as a writer became a recurring challenge. The emergence of AI tools over the past few years has been a game-changer for me. These tools serve as virtual collaborators, helping me brainstorm ideas and providing editorial guidance. They expedite the journey from a blank page to a polished draft, offering a supportive framework that has been invaluable in rebuilding my confidence.

Today, I continue to climb out of that pit of self-doubt. Each step forward reaffirms that authenticity in storytelling is paramount, transcending any prescribed notion of literary merit or conformity. This journey isn't just about refining my craft; it's about reclaiming my voice amidst the noise of expectations, and finding solace in the stories that resonate most deeply with me.