Planes, Imposter Syndrome, and Automobiles

A story about a story.

By Thomas Moody-Jones

At the start of this semester, I swapped the Subaru that moved me into my freshman-year dorm for a 4Runner that was falling apart. I wanted to be able to afford my own camera; to have money for an out-of-state internship; and to be able to afford an opportunity like Isla de Fuerza.

So I got a scholarship, and I swapped my car.

I think that’s when things cemented for me. That I was going to Puerto Rico. That I was going to spend a week reporting with some of the most talented people in UNC-Hussman. That I was going to write my first major published feature.

And that’s when the imposter syndrome started to sink in.

Before the trip, I worked tirelessly, spending weeks researching and studying the community I intended to focus my story on. I wrote pages and pages of notes, deep-dived through lawsuits and research papers, and translated entire stories from English to Spanish back to English. I wanted to know everything I could. No detail was too small.

But in doing so, I overwhelmed myself. My ideas for a story felt too large, too complex, and altogether too impossible to be put neatly into 2,000 words.

Was I going to be able to do this? Was my story going to stand up?

And then we landed in Carolina, Puerto Rico. My classmates and I had just traveled 1,500 miles – and yet we were only a few blocks from a beach access that bears the same name as my hometown. Something about all of it felt serendipitous. Like maybe the universe had been looking out for me all along.

Every day in Puerto Rico, I was able to surprise myself with what I could accomplish. I asked the right questions. I wrote good notes. I was actively defying that little anxious voice in my head with each new interview and line.

Of course, there were moments where I found myself floating in midair – limited by my lack of Spanish proficiency, choked by my attempts at summary, ribbed by my imposter syndrome – but in these moments, with the help of my collaborators, I was able to regain my footing.

When I couldn’t translate, my sources used what English they knew. When I struggled to settle on a story, my professors supported me. When I needed advice or just to rant, my classmates listened to me talk all night.

I don’t know if I believe in fate. What I do believe is that I have been incredibly lucky. That this semester has been the opportunity I’ve been waiting for.

It’s been nearly two weeks since we’ve gotten back from Puerto Rico, and everything feels like it’s finally coming together. I can’t wait to present our project next month. But in the meantime, I have to ask – does anyone know how to change a flat?