I walk across campus like I’m pretending. Like I borrowed someone else’s seat and I’m just waiting for someone to notice the mistake. I keep my head down, my headphones in, trying to look like I know where I’m going—even when I’m still checking building numbers and room locations on my phone.
Everyone around me seems confident. They move like they’ve done this before. Like college was always part of the plan. I listen to people talk about their majors, their internships, the professors who already know their names. They sound sure of themselves in a way I can’t figure out how to be yet.
In class, people speak with certainty. They raise their hands without hesitation, reference books I haven’t read, ideas I haven’t formed yet. I rehearse what I might say in my head, going over it again and again, adjusting the words until they feel safe. Most of the time, I don’t end up speaking at all. Silence feels less risky than being wrong in front of everyone.
After class, I replay moments in my head. What I should have said. What I could have added. I wonder if staying quiet makes me invisible, or if that’s just what I want—to disappear before anyone notices I don’t feel like I belong.
I got into this school the same way they did. I remind myself of that often. My name was on the acceptance letter. I earned my place here. I know this logically. But confidence doesn’t follow logic. It shows up without permission for some people, and for others, it takes time.
I’m starting to understand that belonging doesn’t always feel natural at first. Sometimes it doesn’t feel good or reassuring or earned. Sometimes belonging is just staying. Sitting in the seat anyway. Showing up again the next day. Trusting that one day, the space will start to feel like mine too.
