“Do you ever deal with imposter syndrome?”
The question was posed to me not long ago in an interview.
The term itself sounded more like a criticism than a condition. “No,” I shot back without hesitation.
She pressed: “You know, the feeling that you’re unworthy of your accomplishments, that you’re inadequate in your own career?”
I gave her a cool look. “I know what I’m good at. That’s obvious to me, and to anyone who has ever come across my curation.”
At the time, it was true. I was a few years into running my vintage studio, Nou. I had cultivated a following, dressed celebrities, fed stylists, and sourced the kind of vintage people were desperate for. The role came easily, almost cosmically timed with the vintage resale boom. I wasn’t an imposter. I was one of the best.
It wasn’t until I began designing shoes under the Nou name that everything changed. When it comes to other people’s work, I am ruthless…naming something ugly or genius in under five seconds. But my own? One moment I’m elated: This is the shoe of my dreams. The next I’m spiraling: Wait, is this actually hideous?
It was naïve to assume that the instinct I had honed through years of curation would be enough to carry me into creating my own designs. The moment I created something born from the private corners of my mind, my work suddenly felt tender, vulnerable, even terrifying. With it came the devil on my shoulder, the voice in my head determined to tear me apart. The imposter syndrome I had once only heard about arrived uninvited and quickly became a presence that followed me everywhere.
Lexi, you have no idea what the fuck you’re doing. A real designer would know these answers.
The voice hissed as I sat with factory partners in Portugal, drowning in fabric swatches and fit notes. My inner critic wasn’t wrong. I was new to this, and I didn’t have all the answers. What I did have was an undying, almost delusional commitment to a vision and the clarity to follow it above everything else. Blind faith has a way of keeping you afloat, even when the voice insists you should sink.
The thing about imposter syndrome is it thrives in that liminal space between certainty and doubt, where you are both a genius and a fraud depending on the lighting…and your mood.
Which is why it feels nothing short of surreal to be celebrated with one of fashion’s highest honors: a feature in the September issue of Vogue. I am deeply grateful, especially to Lilah Ramzi for always recognizing the beauty of Nou. It is the kind of accomplishment I have dreamt of for many years. And yet, even in this moment, the voice follows me. The question lingers... Do I deserve this?
There isn’t an accolade in the world that can silence your inner critic. But you can learn to live with it. To listen without obeying. To take what’s useful and leave the rest. In its own strange way, it keeps your ego in check.
I’ve come to accept that the voice never leaves. Not now, not later, not even one day when I am the next Manolo Blahnik. It will still be there, reminding me that I don’t know enough, haven’t done enough, don’t deserve enough. And maybe that’s the point. The presence of your own worst enemy can either be the darkness that pushes you toward greatness or the weight that swallows you whole.
As Jonathan Anderson once said: “Only shit artists feel like they’re a big deal.”
And if that’s the case, I’m right where I need to be.