Real > Perfect: Choosing to Be Human

I received the following email last week morning, and it led to reflection and inspiration:

Hello,

I just wanted to thank you for your presentation on the 20th, where you talked about the impact of your ADHD and Dyslexia. Having someone put something in words that I’ve been struggling to try to explain, even to myself, was truly helpful.

Thanks again.

This message reminded me how powerful it is when we show our humanity to the students we mentor, teach, and advise. It affirmed something I’ve learned over time but didn’t always practice: students don’t need to see us as perfect, they need to see us as real.

In his book Lies My Teacher Told Me, James Loewen introduces the concept of “herofication,” the process by which educators and society turn historical figures and role models into flawless, untouchable icons. These stories leave no room for failure, no room for nuance, no room for vulnerability. And when we follow that model in our own teaching and mentoring, we unintentionally send the message that we, too, are infallible, and that our students must be as well.

But perfection is a myth. And chasing it can be crushing.

I used to avoid talking about my struggles. I worried they might make me look less credible. But over time, I realized the opposite is true: when I share my vulnerabilities, I create space for students to do the same.

I tell them about my first-semester GPA: 0.97. I talk openly about my undiagnosed dyslexia and ADHD, and the years I spent thinking I just wasn’t smart enough. These were not small hurdles. They were real, heavy barriers. And yet, with time, support, and a lot of persistence, I earned a Ph.D.

When I share this, students sit differently. Shoulders drop. Eyes widen. Some begin to ask better questions. They start to believe maybe they belong here, too.

Because the truth is, Imposter Syndrome is pervasive, especially for first-generation students, students from underrepresented groups in higher education, neurodiverse students, and those from historically marginalized backgrounds. When all they see are polished success stories, they begin to internalize the lie that everyone else has it together except them. And we unknowingly reinforce this myth when we only share our accomplishments and never the detours, roadblocks, and failures along the way.

These internalized challenges aren’t just emotional or academic and they become existential threats to students’ sense of belonging, their ability to matriculate, persist, graduate, and ultimately find meaningful employment. When students believe they must be perfect, or that no one else struggles, they are more likely to disengage, drop out, or opt out altogether. And when that happens, we all lose.

Think about it: when we can support students in overcoming these barriers; when we can deliver on the promise of their aspirations, we’re not just impacting an individual student. We’re transforming the trajectory of their life, their family’s well-being, and the future of the communities they call or will call home. That’s the real power of education.

But that transformation begins with us being honest and making ourselves human.

We teach the importance of a growth mindset—the belief that ability is not fixed, that intelligence can be developed, and that setbacks are part of the process, not the end of it. We demonstrate that it’s okay to stumble, to ask for help, to take time and still reach your goals.

So, to my fellow educators, mentors, and advisors: Let’s stop being superheroes. Let’s be human. Let’s talk about the things that didn’t go as planned. Let’s normalize the nonlinear paths. Let’s speak openly about therapy, medication, failure, disappointment and persistence.

In doing so, we give our students the gift of honesty. We give them a roadmap that includes mistakes, dead ends, and new beginnings. We give them permission to be works in progress.

And maybe, just maybe, they’ll stop questioning if they belong and start believing they do.