Imagine asking a room of five hundred women: “Raise your hand if you have experienced imposter syndrome.” I did this recently. A sea of hands went up, including my own. Because we’ve been schooled to believe that we are in the grip of this “syndrome” and that whenever we feel self-doubt, insecurity or questioning we should label it as such. It’s painful and feels nasty. So naturally we want a diagnosis. It makes sense if the patient has imposter syndrome.

My aim, however, was to demonstrate that this must be nonsense. I’m no doctor but it seems to me that if 90 per cent of people or more report that they are suffering from a condition, then it is very likely the disease known as the human condition. Next question: “Is there anyone here who has never felt imposter syndrome?” One brave woman raised her hand. You could feel the famous quote from When Harry Met Sally flash through the collective mind: “I’ll have what she’s having.” 

The point was made. We have labelled natural, reasonable self-doubt as “imposter syndrome” when it’s just part of a healthy professional life. But there’s something about sharing these insecurities that gives us — and women, in particular — a sense of community. And, perhaps more importantly, these self-blaming concepts also offer an explanation of sorts. Why do these statistics persist, like the one about more men called Dave or Steve than women becoming CEOs? Why, in the Conservative leadership election in the UK, is the demographic of Tory members eligible to vote 63 per cent male?