043 imposter syndrome in the arab diaspora

For many growing up Arab in the diaspora, success was rarely framed as a dream. It was framed as an expectation.

It wasn’t What do you want to be when you grow up? so much as You have to do well. Do well in school. Do well in your career. Do well enough that the story of immigration ends on a high note. Success wasn’t just personal. It was collective. It carried the weight of family sacrifice, survival, and displacement.

For many Arab children of immigrants, achievement becomes proof that leaving home was worth it. It becomes a way of honoring parents’ losses, navigating racism, and securing safety in systems that were never designed with us in mind. But when success is expected rather than chosen, something complicated begins to happen internally.

A Different Kind of Imposter Syndrome

Imposter syndrome is often described as the persistent belief that one’s success is undeserved or fraudulent. In mainstream narratives, it shows up as fear of being “found out,” hesitation to pursue opportunities, or chronic self-doubt despite evidence of competence.

In the Arab diaspora, imposter syndrome often looks different.

It’s not always about feeling unqualified. It’s about feeling unanchored.

Many Arabs in the diaspora achieve outward success, degrees, careers, stability, while internally questioning whether the life they’re living actually belongs to them. The anxiety isn’t just Am I good enough? It’s Is this my life, or am I fulfilling an unspoken contract I never agreed to but feel bound by?

This form of imposter syndrome is less about paralysis and more about pressure. You keep going. You keep achieving. You perform competence well, sometimes exceptionally well, while quietly feeling disconnected from your own desires.

The Cost of Having No Room for Uncertainty

In many immigrant households, especially those shaped by war, political instability, or economic precarity, uncertainty is seen as dangerous. Stability becomes synonymous with safety. Respectability becomes protection. Risk feels irresponsible.

As a result, many Arab children grow up without much room to “find themselves.” Exploration is often postponed in favor of practicality. Emotional ambiguity is minimized in favor of endurance. Success becomes the safest path, even if it’s not the most aligned one.

Over time, this can lead to a fractured sense of self. You know how to succeed, but not necessarily how to listen to yourself. You move forward, but slowing down feels risky. Rest can feel indulgent. Failure can feel catastrophic, not just personally, but symbolically, as if it would confirm every fear your parents had about leaving home.

Guilt, Gratitude, and Emotional Suppression

One of the most painful layers of this experience is guilt.

The guilt of feeling overwhelmed by a life that looks successful from the outside.
The guilt of wanting something softer, slower, or less impressive.
The guilt of asking for emotional space when your family survived through endurance, not reflection.

Many Arabs in the diaspora internalize the belief that struggling emotionally is a sign of ingratitude. How can I be anxious or unfulfilled when my parents sacrificed so much? This belief often keeps people silent, even as anxiety, burnout, and self-doubt quietly accumulate.

Mental health conversations in Arab communities have not always made space for this kind of struggle. On the surface, things look fine. You’re educated. You’re functioning. You’re doing what you’re supposed to do. But internally, many are carrying chronic stress, imposter feelings, and a quiet grief for the versions of themselves they didn’t feel allowed to explore.

Imposter Syndrome as Cultural Inheritance

What if imposter syndrome in the Arab diaspora isn’t a personal flaw, but a cultural inheritance?

What if it’s the result of growing up highly attuned to expectations, responsibility, and survival, while being under-supported in developing a sense of self separate from obligation?

When identity is built primarily around achievement and resilience, there’s often little space for desire, rest, or uncertainty. You learn how to be admirable, but not necessarily how to feel at home within yourself.

Redefining Success

For many Arabs in the diaspora, healing isn’t about rejecting success. It’s about redefining it.

It’s about making room for choice instead of default paths.

For rest without guilt.
For identities not solely built on productivity or resilience.
For lives that feel aligned, not just impressive.

This shift doesn’t erase gratitude or dishonor family sacrifice. Instead, it honors it by allowing the next generation to live fuller, more integrated lives, not just survive.

Maybe the most meaningful shift isn’t proving that you belong in the rooms you’ve entered, but learning how to belong to yourself once you’re there.

And maybe success, when chosen rather than expected, can finally feel like something you get to live inside, not just live up to.