Um. I’m Pretty Sure Someone Made a Mistake.

Hi. I’m Patrick. And I suffer from damn near crippling imposter syndrome. Still.

Two weeks ago, I spoke at the Twin Cities Young Professionals Summit put on by my friends at the Eden Prairie Chamber of Commerce.

Great event. Incredible speakers. Free headshots. Best nametags I’ve encountered at an event this year. And WAY better food and snacks than expected, which is ALWAYS a bonus.

They put me on a luncheon panel called “The Leadership Hot Seat.”

The other panelists?

The marketing director for the Minnesota Vikings.

The VP/CMO at Global Starkey Hearing.

The former COO of GrubHub turned CEO of her own worldwide strategy firm.

And me.

Patrick Kirby. Fundraising consultant from West Fargo, North Dakota.

A guy whose most impressive corporate credential is that I was a Guinea pig for fidget toys from the Autism Department unbeknownst to me, as other executives saw me sitting in weekly 6-hour meetings and figured “that dude is clearly undiagnosed, so let’s use his inability to sit still as a way to experiment with new ways to help our ADHD kids by strategically placing concentration fidgets in front of him and watch which ones make him pay attention to spreadsheets better than the 8-year-old-like frontal cortex he seems to have as a grown ass adult.”

One of these things was not like the other.

I was the other thing.

And I knew it.

I knew it when I read the panelist list.

I knew it when I walked into the building.

I knew it when I sat down at the table and the moderator introduced us and everyone else’s title had words like “Chief” and “Vice President” and “Global” in them, and mine had “Do Good Better Consulting” which, while I love it with my entire soul, does sound like something a very enthusiastic Cub Scout troop would name themselves.

I had imposter syndrome so loud it could have been its own panelist.

The weird part, is that been doing this for over 20 years. I’ve keynoted conferences, written books, trained thousands of nonprofits…like, I’ve been on stages and in front of people.

Hell, I ran a two breakout sessions at the same event that morning and they went great.

People laughed at the right parts and everything.

And I STILL felt like someone was going to tap me on the shoulder and say, “Sir, we meant the OTHER Patrick Kirby. The one who runs a hedge fund. You can leave now. There are gourmet granola bars by the door, please take only one, as they are gourmet and only supposed to be for super important people, which, clearly, you as the non-hedge fund Patrick Kirby, are NOT.”

So why am I telling you this?

Because it’s November. And you’re about to walk into rooms that scare you.

And you’re absolutely not alone in feeling nervous, terrified or whatever other emotion that makes you lose sleep at night is.

And we’re gonna get through this together.

The Rooms Are Coming

Year-end is here. And with it comes every room that makes nonprofit professionals feel exactly the way I felt at that panel.

The major donor meeting where you’re asking for more money than you’ve ever asked for or the board meeting where you have to present the annual fund results and they’re not where you wanted them to be or the sponsorship pitch where you’re sitting across from a corporate VP who has seventeen other asks on their desk and exactly zero emotional attachment to yours.

Oh, how about the end-of-year appeal that you have to write, proof, approve, and send while also managing an event, answering 400 emails, and pretending you’re not stress-eating holiday candy in your car between meetings.

Those rooms are coming. And imposter syndrome is going to show up early, grab a seat, and start whispering sweet nothings in your ear before you even open your mouth.

So let me tell you what I learned while sitting on a panel next to the Minnesota Vikings, feeling like I’d accidentally wandered into someone else’s life.

Imposter Syndrome Is Not a Bug. It’s a Feature.

I know that sounds like something a tech bro would say to you while attempting to sell you on a new AI feature in their CRM that doesn’t work, but is also “cutting edge” but also expensive, and so in order to justify said expense they use this term to make you feel better about the thing you don’t want, but have to have, because there is no other option without it.

But hear me out.

When you feel like you don’t belong in the room, it means something. Several somethings, actually. And none of them are “you’re a fraud.”

1.     It means you’re authentic. You know what’s worse than feeling like you don’t belong? Feeling like you absolutely belong and having zero evidence to support it. The people who never feel imposter syndrome are usually the ones who probably should. The fact that you’re questioning yourself means you’re not delusional. Congratulations! That’s a genuinely underrated quality in 2026.

2.     It means you care. You don’t get imposter syndrome about things you don’t care about. I have never once felt imposter syndrome at a dentist appointment. Not once. Because I’m not emotionally invested in the outcome of my teeth cleaning. But put me on a panel with executives to talk about leadership? Suddenly I care very much about whether I sound smart, whether I’m adding value, whether anyone notices that my pants are from Kohl’s.

If you care enough to be nervous, you care enough to be great.

3.     It means you have growth potential. Imposter syndrome seemingly lives in the gap between where you are and where you think you should be. Wanna know a secret about that gap? It means you’re reaching. You’re not coasting or playing it safe. You are in a room that is slightly too big for your comfort zone, which is literally the only way comfort zones get bigger.

4.     It means you’re humble. And in a world where LinkedIn is 90% people who are absolutely certain they have all the answers, humility is a superpower. Donors can smell arrogance from three zip codes away. Board members can too. The person who walks into a meeting knowing they don’t have it all figured out is the person who actually listens. And the person who listens is the person who closes the gift.

5.     It means you’re a regular human. You might be a fundraising machine, but you're certainly not a robot. You're not an AI-generated confidence algorithm, you're an actual person. With doubts and nerves and that bubbly stomach that is loud to you, and probably others, but they are nice and won’t mention it. And people connect with people, not with perfection.

These aren’t just somethings. They matter. And everyone has them.

Your Jokes Might Not Land. That’s Fine.

I’m no stranger to saying things that I think are funny and not a single person in my audible range agree that the thing I said was actually funny.

Prime example, the moderator asked us about leadership mistakes. The Vikings’ marketing director gave a polished, thoughtful answer about organizational communication. The Starkey VP talked about strategic pivots during COVID. Very corporate. Very impressive.

I told a story about accidentally double-booking a donor meeting with a board training and showing up to the wrong one first, realizing my mistake 20 minutes in, and having to excuse myself by claiming I had a “family emergency” which was technically true if you consider my nonprofit family and the emergency was my own incompetence.

People laughed. Like, actually laughed. Not politely. Not “oh that’s cute.” Real laughs from real people who have probably…no…definitely done similar things.

Because being the person in the room who doesn’t look like everyone else brings something everyone else can’t. You bring the messy, honest, “I have no idea what I’m doing but I’m doing it anyway” energy that makes people feel seen.

Your year-end donor meeting doesn’t need to be perfect. It needs to be real.

Also, to be fair, I did make a joke about my resilience as a business owner was tied directly to being a Vikings Fan for 40+ years in front of the person who tries to make their fan base forget about the resiliency their fan base has because their fan base has been traumatized for decades.

It went as well as you think it went. Nervous chuckles. And a side eye from across the panel that I won’t soon forget.

I still said it. Because it was true. And this was WAY before we got Kirko Chainz back as our QB.

sigh

Reflect on How You Got There

On the drive back from Eden Prairie to West Fargo - which, for those of you keeping score, is about a 3.5 hour drive and roughly 6,000 miles of flat - I started thinking about how I ended up on that panel in the first place.

Nobody made a mistake.

They didn’t Google “fundraising consultant” and accidentally click my name instead of some guy in New York.

They asked me because I’ve spent two decades showing up, and writing blogs, and giving talks to rooms of twelve people and rooms of twelve hundred and unhealthily answering emails at 10 PM, and helping nonprofits who couldn’t afford a consultant and Fortune 500 companies who could afford anyone.

Spending a half a decade showing up every year to a regional Chamber conference giving more than I could have given because I genuinely loved the audience captured the attention of the event planner that thought about me months later when dreaming up the speaker lineup.

You didn’t end up in your role by accident either.

That board meeting you’re dreading? You’re in that room because someone believed you were the right person to be there.

That major donor meeting? You got that meeting because you did the cultivation work. That sponsorship pitch? You’re sitting at that table because you built something worth investing in.

Imposter syndrome wants you to forget all of that. Don’t let it.

Um. Please Still Show Up

If you retain anything from this 2000+ word blog, it's this:

Still show up.

Show up to the board meeting even though your numbers aren’t perfect. Yeah, you have to justify them, and that’s ok, because you know your numbers better than anyone at that meeting.

Show up to the donor meeting even though you’re nervous. Hell, they are nervous about what number you’re gonna ask them to give.

Show up to the sponsorship pitch even though the person across the table has a fancier title. That person has no idea what they are doing either, which is the funniest thing about imposter syndrome – we’re all just walking around pretending we know more than we do.

Show up to the year-end campaign planning session even though you have no idea if the plan is going to work. Fun fact, NO ONE knows what will work or not, but you’re crazy enough to try something different and that makes you awesome.

Show up the way I showed up to that panel. Terrified, slightly underdressed, and absolutely certain that someone was going to figure out I didn’t belong there.

And then show up anyway.

Because (as I realize after every moment I have that is similar to me being on the pane) the audience didn’t want perfect answers from perfect executives. They wanted real answers from real people. And the moment I stopped trying to sound like some super-fancy-pants business owner panelist and started sounding like a fundraising nerd from West Fargo who has made every mistake in the book and somehow kept going, that’s when the room leaned in.

Yes, you absolutely belong at the table.

Even when the table feels too big or when the other people at the table seem more polished, more credentialed, more everything.

You belong there because you showed up, you care, and you’ve done the work.

Dammit, you belong there.

Now go make your asks. Go have your board conversations. Go pitch your sponsorships. Go write your year-end appeal. Go sit at the table that scares you.

And if imposter syndrome shows up (Oh, it will) just nod at it, acknowledge it’s there, and do the thing anyway.

You’ve freaking got this.

-Patrick

P.S. The panel went great, by the way. I didn’t get escorted out. Nobody asked for the “other” Patrick Kirby. And I’m pretty sure at least one person Googled my books afterward. So, you know. EPIC WIN.

P.P.S. If you’re heading into year-end feeling like you’re in over your head, you’re not. You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. But if you want a pep talk or some tactical help, hit reply. I’ve got you.

Frequently Asked Questions About Imposter Syndrome in Nonprofit Fundraising

1. How do I deal with imposter syndrome before a major donor meeting?

Reframe it: imposter syndrome means you care about doing a good job, not that you’re unqualified. Reflect on the cultivation work that earned you the meeting, prepare your ask, and show up as yourself. Donors respond to authenticity, not perfection.

2. Is it normal for experienced fundraisers to feel like imposters?

Absolutely. Even 20-year veterans feel it before big presentations, board meetings, and high-stakes asks. It never fully goes away - but that’s actually a sign of growth, humility, and genuine investment in the work.

3. How can imposter syndrome actually help my fundraising?

It keeps you humble, authentic, and attentive. People who feel it tend to over-prepare, listen more carefully, and connect more genuinely with donors. Those are fundraising superpowers, not weaknesses.

4. What should I do when I feel unqualified heading into year-end?

Show up anyway. Your numbers don’t need to be perfect, your pitch doesn’t need to be flawless, and your plan doesn’t need to be guaranteed. You belong in the room because you did the work to get there. Do the thing, feel the fear, and do it anyway.

5. How do I build confidence for board presentations and sponsorship pitches?

Reflect on what got you to this point - the years of showing up, the relationships you’ve built, the donors who trust you. Preparation matters, but so does being real. Audiences and donors lean in when you’re genuine, not when you’re polished.