Imposter Emmy

TLDR: I Won an Emmy. I Didn’t Deserve It. That’s the Point.

I had this idea in my head — that winning an Emmy would be the result of some mind-blowing pitch, a story so undeniable it would change my life. I imagined newsroom confetti, emotional interviews, a viral revelation that’d finally land me a full-time spot.

That’s not what happened.

What happened was... I got assigned a segment. I did my job. I wasn’t even thrilled with the interview. I’m pretty sure my EP — a masterful editor with cabinets full of awards — cut it himself. And somehow, that segment won.

We won.

It didn’t feel like a triumph. It felt like I’d gotten away with something. Like I’d snuck into a club I wasn’t supposed to be in. I didn’t even order the statue — which you have to pay for, by the way. No one tells you that.

But the thing is, that Emmy wasn’t mine. It was ours. It was a reflection of team excellence, not individual brilliance. I played my role, and the system worked. That realization rattled me. I thought I had to dominate to win. Turns out, I just had to contribute — and do it well.

Later, I saw a teammate flaunting the award in the studio. At first, it rubbed me the wrong way — but then I realized: they’d spent decades in the game. That win meant everything. It was validation. And they’d earned it.

I left the show soon after. I dragged my feet signing a new contract, caught up in the pursuit of money and stability. New management saw my heart wasn’t in it anymore. They made the right call. I moved on. But my family still tells me I should get the statue. I haven’t.

Maybe I will one day. But only when I feel I’ve earned it again — not with awards, but with consistency, humility, and mastery.

Looking back, winning that Emmy made me confront the truth: the showmanship, the politics, the "career moments" — it’s all noise.

What matters is the work. The discipline. The team. The process.

That’s what creates legacy. Everything else is just ceremony.