Picture this: In one year your Mum passes away, you leave your 17 year marriage, move from the suburbs to bustling K road, and start a stand up comedy career. Sounds like the perfect time to change jobs, right? Diving from a leadership role at an org rooted in structure academia and hierarchy headfirst into the slick, fast-paced world of a tech start-up nonetheless. A Windows loyalist suddenly wrestling with a MacBook (command what?). A kid never picked for a netball team suddenly battling imposter syndrome like it’s an Olympic sport.
This isn’t a punchline; it’s my life.
Nearly two years ago, I joined Tracksuit, a kiwi success story celebrated for its meteoric growth and triple-triple-double ARR stats (read more here). Back then, we shared a cozy office, and everything felt new, scrappy, and a little overwhelming. Fast forward to today: we’ve skyrocketed into one of New Zealand’s most exciting tech companies (if you haven’t heard of us, where have you been?)
But my journey wasn’t as seamless as our growth charts.
I’ve never been one to follow a conventional path. I left school at 15, dove into sales, was married with two kids and a mortgage by 23. By my mid-30s, I’d built a career in leadership roles, managing teams and juggling big responsibilities. Before Tracksuit, I worked at UniServices, the commercial arm of the University of Auckland, overseeing a team of 25 contract managers. Pretty different to the beanbags and table tennis tables of a tech startup.
But life had other plans. The year before I joined Tracksuit was hectic to say the least. I was learning to navigate life on my terms, breaking molds I’d unknowingly been squeezing myself into for decades. That classic trajectory of box ticking the ‘shoulds’. But I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t living the life I knew I was supposed to be living.
Joining a start-up like Tracksuit was like stepping onto another planet. The language of tech, marketing and startups was foreign. What’s 10x? TAM? Seed investments? The tools were unfamiliar. And the people? They were young, fast, and brilliant—I was significantly older, divorced and struggling to copy text on my Mac.
And shall we mention the career pivot (yes, I used that word). After years in leadership, I was now back to being an individual contributor, responsible only for my own performance. The pressure to prove myself was suffocating.
Imposter syndrome isn’t just self-doubt; it’s a voice in your head that says, You don’t belong here. Studies suggest it affects up to 82% of people, with women and those in high-achieving environments disproportionately impacted. For me, it was amplified by the fact that I was older than most of my colleagues, new to marketing, and navigating an industry I’d never touched before. Also the Apple mouse was giving me absolute grief.
I vividly remember missing my first month’s target. I felt like a failure, convinced I was the weak link in a team of overachievers. My inner monologue (I call her Mona) was relentless: What was I thinking? How can I possibly measure up?
One evening, I was sitting at my desk, gripping its edges like they might save me from drowning. I was working late, obsessing over every detail, consumed by the need to prove my worth. That’s when Matt, one of Tracksuit’s co-founders, sat down beside me.
“Hannah,” he said, his tone calm but firm, “focus on inputs, not outputs.”
At first, it didn’t register. I was so fixated on outcomes—hitting targets, closing deals—that I’d lost sight of the process. Matt’s words were a wake-up call. Success wasn’t about controlling every outcome; it was about showing up, doing the work, and trusting the process.
Mona (my internal bully) changed. You do belong here. Remember your special sauce.
That conversation flipped a switch for me. Instead of trying to be like everyone else, I leaned into what made me different. My years in sales taught me empathy. My years leading teams meant I knew authenticity to be a superpower. My stand-up side hustle gave me the power to lighten up. And my unconventional path meant I wasn’t afraid to take risks or ask questions.
I started approaching my role with vulnerability, sharing my struggles with colleagues and creating space for others to do the same. I discovered that most of my teammates felt imposter syndrome too. A little honesty went a long way in building trust and camaraderie.
And I did the things.
One of which was networking. Marketing Association’s Brainy Breakfast was one of my first gigs. What a surprise!
Coming from a background in sales and academia, I expected a competitive, maybe serious environment. Instead, I found an inclusive, supportive network of epic humans who welcomed me with open arms. I absolutely love going to marketing events and have hosted a few of my own.
Through Tracksuit, I’ve made lifelong friends and discovered a sense of belonging I didn’t know I was missing. The high-care, high-performance culture isn’t just a tagline; it’s a way of life.
And I’m achieving. I’ve exceeded my targets for two years running, despite the rocky start. Imposter syndrome no more! (Tui ad, yeah right).
But I still have my bumps.
2024 was another “annus horribilis,” filled with personal loss and challenges. In September I lost my best friend. My kids moved out and I had an empty nest. But I’m proud of my resilience. October was my biggest month ever at Tracksuit. And my social equity at work meant I had a team behind me.
I learned that thriving isn’t about avoiding adversity; it’s about showing up for yourself and others, even when it’s hard.
Imposter syndrome hasn’t disappeared—it still lurks in the shadows. But I’ve learned to see it differently. It’s a sign that I’m pushing boundaries, stepping out of my comfort zone, and growing.
Here’s what I’d tell anyone navigating similar feelings:
If you’d told me two years ago that I’d thrive in one of New Zealand’s fastest-growing tech start-ups, I’d have laughed. But here I am, proof that success isn’t about fitting in—it’s about standing out. Imposter syndrome may never go away, but it doesn’t have to hold you back. Sometimes, the best way to beat it is to sit down at your desk, loosen your grip, and trust yourself to figure it out.