In a moment of pure panic, mostly stemming from my deep-seeded fear that I have wasted my Yale education thus far, I sent a 2AM request to see my admissions file.
I always thought that the ghost of imposter syndrome would leave me eventually. By the end of freshman year, its haunting moans that I wasn’t enough to be here had dulled from a loud roar that overpowered most of my days to a quiet whisper that only reached me when it was late and I couldn’t solve a problem on my stats p-set. But junior spring has revitalized this ghost. My friends and classmates are beginning to get summer internship acceptances and society letters and all of this written proof that they are the kind of people who are supposed to be at a place like Yale. And I, with none of these external validations, find this the time where the ghost begins to bang on the sides of my skull screaming “you’re not meant for places like this.”
I do believe most times that Yale chooses the right people to be here. And yet, I have found myself to be the one exception to this belief. On this here Tuesday night, having emailed requesting to know what spark I used to have that would compel someone to allow me into this hallowed space, I have found myself musing about the me that could have been here had the mistake of my admittance never taken place. I don’t think I’ve ever wondered before who would have taken my spot, but tonight it is all I can do not to be consumed by the guilt of who they might have been. I bet they would have been cool, joined a lot of organizations, published more articles, and received better grades. I bet they were some kid from somewhere that prepared them to be here. Someone who understands networking, and investments, and how best to get what one should from the privilege of this education. I bet they would have been an ivy leaguer, dressed like one, acted like one. I bet they would have been great. But instead, Yale got me. And I cannot emphasize enough how much I too am confused by this fact.
This crumbling feeling, like someone else could have taken my place and done it better, has left me here, emailing the registrar, asking for an appointment to view my admissions file, like somewhere in these lines a stranger wrote about me I might be able to see what I’m supposed to be doing here. Like maybe they see something that I can’t, like they know something I don’t. I hope somewhere along the way I’ve missed my potential and they didn’t. That I’m wrong, not them. But until the fateful day I see that file, I am left with this ghost, etching into the side of my skull, “you’ve ruined it, everything you were handed you let fall away, and for what? You had it all handed to you and are still nothing.”
By Liz Carter
