Pre-Oxford, I was everything you would expect of a to-be Oxford student: top marks, homework always in on time, projects completed to the nines. I never would have admitted that I felt pressured to be ‘top of the class.’ It’s true that I was not pressured by parents, friends, or even teachers – I don’t think. And yet, I know that deep down, back then I needed to be top of the class. I needed to feel the security that came from knowing that I was doing well, I was doing best.
Because it was my identity. Bookworm. Academic. (Sweat). It was a core part of me, internal pressure building as it bubbled up, up, and poured out into my homework, classwork, and tests.
It would have been safe to assume that on this trajectory, Oxford would swing the pendulum even further, heightening my perfectionistic tendencies. And yet, contrary to what people might assume, being at Oxford actually cured my academic perfectionism. There’s no longer the pressure to be at the top, because everyone here hails from the academic summits. There’s no longer a clear mountain
that I have to climb, that I have to be on top of. I’ve experienced great freedom in just, well, giving up. I no longer try to be top of the class. I no longer feel the need to
be the best. Of course, I still put in effort – but that effort comes from wanting to enjoy my degree, not wanting to reach the top. I want to learn, not secure top place. There’s no point in trying to be the top of the class anymore, because we have all climbed past the clouds and are together upon the peak. There are still sub-peaks, higher places you can climb up to. There are the people who get firsts. There are people who want to do a Master’s. But to me, these seem more like cairns: not at all necessary (or recommended) to climb. If you see someone on one, you are impressed, perhaps taken aback, but feel no compulsion to join them. There is no sense that you have failed in not climbing one. Sometimes it’s fun to climb a cairn – there might be a slightly different view, a better one, even – but it’s certainly not necessary. Certainly not something one must do every week.
Things that would have horrified me a few years ago are now no big deal. Need to ask for an extension on an essay? Totally fine. Handing in a piece of work a few hours late? Doesn’t faze me. Have to hand something in that I know is sub-par? Oh well. Doesn’t matter too much. It’s near-impossible to meet every deadline here. Definitely impossible for every piece of work to be perfect. So the Oxford workload, rather than triggering a stress response, has instead desensitised me to the fear of academic failure. Exposure therapy, I suppose. It’s very freeing.
So here, I am no longer the academic one. The bookworm. The sweat. I’m not aiming for a first. I don’t want to do a Master’s. Although there are people beyond my primary
friendship group who probably still think of me as the ‘quiet’ one – I’ve never been a fan of raising my hand in class, that much hasn’t changed – amongst my friends, I’ve become known as the ‘chaotic’ one. The ‘fun’ one. The one dragging everyone to bops and making them dance. The one rallying them to stay up on May Day. The one who does hair and makeup for people before going out. The one with the most ‘entertaining’ love life (such a flattering label).
And so I’ve experienced a different sort of imposter syndrome. I’ve not experienced any significant academic imposter syndrome – not that I feel on top of the work; just
that I’ve sort of bumbled my way along in bemused acceptance. But I have most definitely felt social imposter syndrome. How have I become the one amongst my friends who wants to go out the most? The one who (apparently) knows most about hair and makeup and clothes? The one who supplies the friendship group with the best (as in
worst) relationship drama? How is all this me? Until relatively recently, I didn’t give a second thought to clothes, or hair, or makeup, or social events – let alone
relationships. It’s been a total social repositioning. The pendulum has swung entirely the other way. Of course, these shifts are a natural part of growing up. Yet I know
that being in Oxford has intensified the contrast.
But then I go home for the vac, and hang out with my brother and his girlfriend and their friends … and the pendulum swings again. All of a sudden, I’m flung back into
my role as the academic one, the one who loves studying – the one who even goes to Oxford, of all places. My makeup bag is pitiful compared to theirs. My wardrobe is drab – seriously lacking in trends. To them, my social life must seem painfully tame and stiff. My love life too, probably. Your parties are run through college? A black tie dinner is your idea of a fun Friday night? I must seem ridiculous.
I suppose all this should leave me with a bit of an identity crisis. A sense of disorientation, hesitancy, or loss. But as it turns out, I’m quite happy to just sit on the pendulum and let it take me where it will.
