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s I stepped onto Old Campus at Yale, my trendy sneakers — chosen after weeks of agonising deliberation, as if the right kicks could somehow make me cooler — barely made a sound on the lush, manicured grass. I had rolled up my sleeves, eager to showcase the fruit of my extensive summer workouts and free weights routine. The air buzzed with the excitement of move-in day. Frisbees soared over piles of boxes and the faint strains of an acoustic guitar floated through the air.
In the distance, Harkness Tower rose above the treetops—not on Old Campus but close enough to be a silent witness to generations of similar scenes—and probably countless misguided attempts at impressing peers. With a confidence bordering on cockiness—and inversely proportional to my actual coolness—I swaggered toward Bingham Hall, my soon-to-be home for the next year, secretly hoping to run into a pretty girl who needed help with her heavy luggage. Totally shallow, I know. Blame it on adolescent insecurity or too many coming-of-age movies. But hey, in that moment, awkwardly flexing for strangers seemed like the perfect fast track to campus popularity.
Let’s rewind for a moment. Picture, if you will, a high school senior so accomplished that he made Doogie Howser look like a slacker. At least, that’s how I saw myself, and as I would often remind everyone. Valedictorian, obviously, because being anything less would have felt like a plot twist that didn’t belong in the grand narrative of my life, I’d obsessively crafted. A perfect 1,600 SAT score was tucked neatly in my back pocket, right next to the trophy from the international debating championship I’d won. The school newspaper? I didn’t just write for it; I was the editor-in-chief, thank you very much. And don’t even get me started on the English Literary Society I chaired. I was the big fish, and high school was my very small, very impressed pond.
So, there I was, ready to conquer Yale like Alexander the Great eyeing Persia. I had visions of wowing professors with my eloquence, dazzling peers with my wit and generally being the toast of New Haven. Oh, sweet summer child.
Reality hit faster than a football to the face during The Game. As I lugged my bags down the Bingham Hall corridor, I overheard someone enthusiastically discussing a non-profit they’d started in school, already changing lives in underserved communities. Impressive, I thought, but surely an outlier. Then I stepped into my room and met my roommates. One had published research in a peer-reviewed journal. The other? Oh, he just casually mentioned that he spoke four languages fluently. And the third? Well, let’s just say he looked like Schwarzenegger’s younger brother, and in comparison, made me look like the before picture in a fitness ad.
The 1,600 SAT score I’d been secretly rehearsing to drop into conversations suddenly felt like I’d brought a butter knife to a gunfight. It now seemed about as impressive as knowing all the words to Bohemian Rhapsody. My debating trophy might as well have been a gold star for successfully tying my own shoelaces. And those rolled-up sleeves showcasing my extensive summer workouts? I discreetly rolled them back down hastily, mumbling something about a sudden chill in the air. “Is it drafty in here, or is it just me?” The others looked at me, quite confused, as they basked in the warm September afternoon. “Maybe I’m coming down with something,” I added with an awkwardly faked cough and sniffle.
The first few weeks were a humbling experience. I walked into the legendary Judith Rodin’s intro psych course—epic! btw—with the kind of confidence that only pure ignorance can provide, fully expecting to dazzle the room with my profound insights on everything from attachment theory to why people pick chocolate over vanilla. I was bracing myself for nods of awe, maybe even a slow clap or two. What did I get instead? Quizzical, bewildered glances. And not the “we’re processing your wisdom” kind—more like the “did he really just say that?” kind.
Turns out, every time I confidently shared what I thought were insightful contributions—like suggesting that repetition is the key to memory formation, because the more you go over it, the better it sticks, right? —my classmates were always steps ahead. The girl next to me, with a barely concealed smirk, turned and pointed out, “Well, repetition does play a role, but it’s far less effective on its own.” Before I could process this, another classmate, without missing a beat, interjected, “Yeah, and don’t forget about active recall and spaced practice. Those are what actually strengthen memory pathways and improve retention over time.” Wait, what? As they casually referenced not only the assigned readings but also optional resources I had only skimmed over, my contribution suddenly felt more like the clumsy opening act to their full-blown academic concert.
In Econ 110, I’d raise my hand, confident in my grasp of basic concepts, only to find myself struggling to keep up with the pace and depth of the discussion. While I was still trying to wrap my head around indifference curves, my classmates were already diving into more complex topics like optimal consumption bundles. Huh. My carefully crafted arguments in class were swatted away like annoying flies by freshmen who seemed to have been born clutching copies of The Wealth of Nations.
It wasn’t as if all of my classmates were academic prodigies—most were just as new to this as I was—but the level of engagement and preparation was unlike anything I’d experienced before. I quickly realised that coasting on natural ability wasn’t going to cut it here. My once-reliable talent for winging it had suddenly developed a severe case of altitude sickness, gasping for air in the rarefied atmosphere of substantive academic discourse and relentless preparation. Lying in bed at night, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling of my dorm room, I would often wonder: Was this it? Had I finally collided with the outer limits of my potential?
Just a few weeks into my freshman year; that’s all it took. Yale’s revered academic sanctums that had seemed to beckon with promises of triumph and renown now reverberated with doubt: was my presence here a cosmic mistake or mere serendipity? My methodically curated high school persona, armed with impeccable credentials and an ego to match, had crumbled in the face of Yale’s rigor and the genuine calibre and excellence of my peers. I found myself struggling to keep up, my confidence shaken to its core, the self-proclaimed prodigy seemed to be no more than a parochial wunderkind.
But then, as I grappled with my new reality, something extraordinary about Yale began to reveal itself. There was an unspoken camaraderie; a communal, infectious passion for learning that surrounded me. Instead of imploding into an academic Hunger Games, the concentration of brilliance created an atmosphere of collaborative learning with an unexpected, overwhelming realisation that we were all in this together. It was a modern-day coliseum, where every participant was both gladiator and spectator and each person’s triumph became a celebration for all.
My roommate who spoke four languages? He taught me curse words in all of them. The non-profit founder? She invited me to join her organisation, valuing my input despite my lack of experience. And my Schwarzenegger-esque roommate? He graciously upgraded my sad excuse for a workout to a real routine—where I promptly discovered muscles I didn’t know existed and an entirely new vocabulary of pain.
Slowly but surely, my initial sense of inadequacy, aggravated by impostor syndrome—yes, I finally did learn a few things in that psych course—evolved into something else. It wasn’t quite the brazen confidence I’d had in high school, but rather a calm self-assurance and an enduring desire to push beyond my self-perceived insufficiencies. I realised that Yale wasn’t about being the best; it was about becoming your best self, and I was surrounded by so many genuinely eager to help.
The rivalries that had defined high school—the constant jockeying for top grades, the fierce competition for leadership positions—seemed petty in retrospect. At Yale, I found myself forging friendships that ran much deeper than obsessing over accolades. As the months turned into years, late-night discussions in the Stiles common room and buttery, fuelled by questionable amounts of coffee and even more questionable pizza from Naples, became the highlight of my weeks.
Don’t get me wrong; Yale was challenging. But it was a challenge that pushed us to grow rather than to outdo each other. The competition wasn’t against my peers but with my own limitations and preconceptions. I found myself less concerned with being a big shot and more interested in exploring and embracing everything Yale had to teach. Along the way, I discovered passions I never knew I had, from obscure medieval literature to the intricacies of game theory. I learned that it’s okay not to be the smartest person in the room—in fact, it’s exhilarating.
My Yale journey became less about adding more triumphs to my résumé and more about learning to learn for the sake of learning, finding joy in the pursuit of knowledge rather than in outperforming others, and above all, understanding that true growth comes not from being a big fish in a small pond, but from swimming freely in an ocean of possibilities.
When I donned my cap and gown at Commencement, the path ahead to grad school beckoned, but the person embarking on this next chapter was vastly different from the naive, cocky freshman who first set foot on Old Campus. The once know-it-all had reformed, the memory of that younger version of myself now felt like a distant echo. Yale hadn’t just educated me; it had fundamentally transformed me, rewiring my understanding of success and self-worth.
The humility I’d gained wasn’t just about adjusting my study habits or rolling down my sleeves—it was about learning to listen, to help others and to accept help. I realised that curiosity and empathy are absolutely vital to success, and that asking the right questions is as important as knowing the right answers. True confidence whispers; it doesn’t shout, and sometimes, the best way to impress is not to try at all.
Standing among my classmates, I knew that the quintessence of my Yale years was found in the shared adventure of growth and discovery we had embarked upon together for four short years. These bonds, forged in our seminal quest for Lux et Veritas, promised to outlast any diploma or honour. The takeaway: embrace the journey, cherish the connections forged along the way and understand that in life’s grand classroom, we’re all perpetual students, continuously learning and unlearning.
So, here’s to Yale, where the pursuit of knowledge isn’t a solitary endeavour, but a collective expedition into the unknown; where big fish learn to swim in grander seas, where rivals become lifelong friends; and where the real competition is with the person you were yesterday.
Shaukat Ahmed, an entrepreneur, has a bachelor’s degree in economics from Yale University and a master’s in business administration from Harvard Business School. He can be reached at saraya.yale.edu