Imposter Syndrome
When I opened the Mirage in 1989 as a dice pit manager, I was one of only two women on the casino leadership team. On the outside, I tried to look confident — but inside, every day for those first few months, I wondered when someone would figure out just how scared I really was. Over the next 30 years, I discovered something I wish I had known then: Imposter syndrome does not just disappear once you get that next promotion. It stays with you, but you can learn to quiet it, work with it, and let it push you to grow.
My gaming career started in December of 1979 when I stepped onto the casino floor in Las Vegas as a dice dealer, which was a rarity for a woman at the time. Nothing will test your confidence like a dealing audition, especially in those days when few women dealt dice. After every failed audition, I would go home exhausted and think, “I don’t know if I can ever do this again.” But by the next week, I would put on my game face, gather my courage, and give it another shot.
After two years of dealing, I was hired at the Sands as a box supervisor, or the person in charge of the entire dice table and crew. I found myself surrounded by seasoned industry veterans, many of whom were quick to remind me that I had not earned my stripes yet. Some called me “Johnny-come-lately.” I paid attention and listened. I watched how they handled the game and the players, how they kept things moving when tensions ran high. Over time, I earned their respect. I felt at home in the dice pit — the camaraderie, the energy, the sense that you always had to be sharp and ready to anticipate anything. I loved it. I knew I had finally won this tough crew over when they threw me a baby shower in 1986.
By the mid-80s, I had worked my way up to floor person and eventually dice pit manager at the Sands. In that role, I felt confident. I knew the game inside out, I knew my team, and I knew how to handle the occasional player who would test every limit. When the Mirage was set to open in 1989, I took a leap and applied for a dice pit manager position — and I got the job.
The Mirage was a game-changer for Las Vegas, and for me. It was dazzling, ambitious, and the first new Strip resort in decades. But being part of that opening team was daunting. I was one of only two women pit managers. Every night, I’d go home and replay every interaction in my head, wondering, “Did I say the right thing? Did I make the right call?” There were days I was so afraid of making a mistake that I would second-guess myself before making any decision. But eventually, something magical happened: My team had my back. The dealers in my pit and the other pit managers were supportive, and little by little, their confidence in me became my own.
Less than two years after The Mirage opened, I was promoted to casino shift manager at the Golden Nugget. That promotion was huge. I had spent my entire 10-year career in the dice pit — and now, suddenly, I was responsible for the entire casino floor: all the table games on my shift. I remember walking out onto the floor that first day thinking, “Me? Running this whole place? Who do I think I am?”
Imposter syndrome showed up loud and clear. A floor supervisor once called surveillance about an advantage player and told them not to call to inform me because, “She doesn’t know what she’s doing.” Those comments stung. But I learned to pick my battles. I doubled down on becoming the best subject matter expert I could be. I asked questions. I learned from everyone — even from the people who did not think I belonged there. And eventually, most of them realized I did.
I spent almost a decade in that role. I learned to trust my instincts, make quick decisions, and build a team that knew I would always back them up. But as it turned out, the more you grow, the more often you have to confront imposter syndrome again.
In 2000, I was promoted to vice president of casino operations at the Golden Nugget. Now I was not just running one shift. I was responsible for the entire operation, 24/7. Budgets, strategy, customer relationships, staffing — the scope expanded overnight. And so did the self-doubt. I was surrounded by executives who had been doing this for years, and part of me always wondered, “When will they figure out I’m making it up as I go?” I even questioned what chair to sit at during executive meetings. I never wanted to take another executive’s favorite seat.
Then came a phone call that changed everything. One of my former colleagues at the Sands, Cynthia Kiser Murphey, reached out and asked if I would be interested in interviewing for the vice president of casino operations position at MGM Grand. A mentor of mine from my Treasure Island days, Bill Hornbuckle, was the property’s president. It was 2001 — the MGM Grand was the largest hotel in the world at the time. I was terrified, but I said yes and met with Bill the following day.
I got the job. But the early days were some of the hardest of my career. I was stepping into a massive operation with a new team, new expectations, and higher stakes than ever. Just six months later, the terrorist attacks of 9/11 shook our entire industry, and I was faced with the heartbreaking task of laying off 25 percent of my staff. It was devastating, but it also taught me one of the most important leadership lessons of my life: Lead with compassion and let people know you will always have their back. I made a promise to myself and my team that I would get them back to work as soon as possible — and we did.
Over the 12 years I spent at MGM, I grew into my skin. I learned to trust the voice in my head that said, “You’ve got this.” The inner critic got quieter. I started to see that my track record spoke for itself. I realized that the moments when you feel like an imposter are often the moments when you are stretching into something bigger than you have ever done before.
In 2013, I joined Wynn Resorts as executive vice president of casino. I had worked for Wynn in the past, and I knew my skills and my worth. But even then, on that first day, walking onto the casino floor in a new role, I felt it again: “Here I go again — new surroundings, new people to prove myself to.” And that is the truth about imposter syndrome: It never fully goes away. But with time, you learn to make it your ally. You learn that it is a sign you are doing something that matters, something that requires you to grow.
Today, as an executive coach, I talk about this openly because I wish more leaders did. In gaming, which is an industry that demands confidence, stamina, and constant performance, there is often a belief that showing vulnerability is weakness. But in my experience, the opposite is true. Talking about imposter syndrome makes us stronger. It makes us more supportive colleagues, better mentors, and more resilient leaders.
If I could tell my younger self — that young woman standing in the dice pit in 1979 — one thing, it would be this: It is okay to feel like you’re not ready. Do it anyway. You do not have to be perfect to be worthy of the opportunity. And you are far more prepared than you think.
Imposter syndrome stays with us throughout our lives, but it loses its power when we share our stories. The next time you hear that voice saying “Who do you think you are?” remind yourself: You are exactly where you’re supposed to be. You are not an imposter. You are evolving.
