it's only cool when other people do it

but not me. definitely not me.

It’s the beginning of my first semester. I’m spending the first two weeks attending different associations’ first events and end up meeting someone at the bookclub association. I tell her I might attend the feminist association’s event in two days, and that she should come with. There, we meet the association’s chair, and we all hit it off, so much so that we end up attending every event that semester.

It’s now the beginning of my third semester, and I am the association’s chair. Yes - me. Yet I don’t exactly say that when newcomers ask about the association. I simply brush myself off as a board member, not specifying what board role I fill. And it’s not that I’m not proud of my role, I’m incredibly proud; ecstatic even.

In lack of better words, it feels like realising that people in their early twenties aren’t exactly adults. I remember as a child looking up to university students, thinking that one day I might aspire to be just like them. I guess I now am, but it doesn’t feel all so special. Sure, I’m a university student, but so is everyone around me.

I wouldn’t say I have imposter syndrome: I’m not a liar, whether it be on a CV or during a conversation. And even if I were, I would never consider the people around me to be so blind as to put me in a position they know I’m not suited for.

So why is it so cool when other people do it, but not me?

There’s a certain thrill when it comes to establishing goals, and an even bigger platitude when achieving them.

The platitude is definitely reserved to a singular: myself. I am always much more exited for other people’s successes. When my friends announce their small wins, I feel like running their victory lap with them. No news is too small, no accomplishment too insignificant.

So why don’t I feel the same way about myself?

I don’t believe this has anything to do with me not aiming high enough. When I set out a goal or write down a dream, it does seem far from my reach. Yet, I was never a natural at anything, so by the time I reach the goal, or get to live the dream, I’ve already done so much for it, that I don’t feel like celebrating - mostly just breathing out.

Is the excitement of it lost by my thoroughness? Does the thought live with me for so long that it loses its air of novelty?

Or perhaps it is not the novelty that doesn’t apply to me, but the consequences that only apply to me. When my friends fail, say I class for example, I associate it with a number of reasons: the professor is a known harsh grader, the professor wasn’t though rough when explaining grading expectations, not enough time was given during the exam… But for me, when I fail, I’m the one that failed. So my successes aren’t so much celebrated as successes in the moment, but rather as lacks of failures.

And that’s no way to celebrate…

I am not the first person to have stricter standards for myself than I would ever have for others. Not the first to be anxiety-ridden at the thought of not succeeding.

So how do you deal with success?

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Love,

Anastasia