When I first received the email about my acceptance and scholarship to UCL, I assumed it came with two things:
- A fully funded degree (fantastic!)
- An official document confirming that I absolutely, definitely belong at UCL (I’m still waiting on that one; maybe it got lost in the mail?)
Imposter syndrome is no joke. Surely someone in admissions will eventually realise their error, barge into my lecture, and announce that there has been a terrible mistake.
At some point in my first few weeks, I realised that most students had been preparing for this their entire lives. Private tuition, meticulous EPQs, and gleaming grade transcripts galore. My biggest academic achievements? Explaining the water cycle really well in GCSE Geography and analysing traffic congestion at my local roundabout. No school trips abroad over here…
Talks of “gap yahs” spent volunteering in “deprived countries” are something you are very likely to come across. These experiences, from what I can tell, involve riding tuk-tuks, playing football with local kids for 5 minutes, and posting deeply reflective Instagram captions about how it ‘changed their perspective on life.’ Meanwhile, my most ‘transformative experience’ was managing to grab the last sandwich in the school canteen.
It didn’t take long for me to realise that most state school students at UCL have a moment where they realise that their peers have lived entirely different lives. This was when I devised my state school student’s guide in fitting in at UCL.
Step One: Live alone, preferably in a studio or large apartment, in the middle of Bloomsbury (or lie and pray that no one asks to come over)
Apparently, every other student lives in a sleek apartment in Central London with an espresso machine and shiny windows overlooking Russell Square. Meanwhile, I live at home with my family, commuting to university.
Whilst they roll out of bed at 8:45 for a 9 am lecture, I’m already deep in battle on the Victoria line, fighting for a seat. By the time I arrive, I’ve already developed a personal vendetta against at least three people and reconsidered all my life choices listening to the screech of the tube, all whilst being wedged between a man aggressively typing emails at 7 am and someone playing music on full volume.
Not exactly the glamorous city life advertised.
Step Two: Learn to play along with pretentious conversations
- Nod thoughtfully when you hear things like “I think the semiotics of postmodern spatial engagement are deeply flawed within the neoliberal framework.” They are being serious, do not laugh.
- Say, “Interesting, yeah,” and let them talk.
- Change the subject to the weather so as not to look like an uneducated slob. Who can argue about rain, right?
Step Three: Don’t fall for the “Where did you go?” question
If you’re from a state school, this question is a trap.
If you say your school name, their face goes blank. They mentally scan their internal database of elite institutions. They don’t recognise it, so they ask you one of these two questions:
- Oh, where is that? (Translation: Was it in a nice part of London, at least?)
- Ahhh, independent or grammar? (Translation: You’re not poor, right?)
When you finally confess that you went to a non-selective state school, you usually get a sympathetic nod, as if they have just discovered you’ve got a chronic illness. “Wow, that’s so… cool”.
Sympathy or condescension? You’ll never know.
Step Four: Maybe not an imposter after all?
Embracing the chaos, I nod along in lectures, occasionally drop phrases like ‘spatial equity,’ and pretend I know what’s happening.
I’ll let you in on a secret: Everyone else is faking it, too, one way or another. So, I’m still here, figuring it out as I go.
And at this point? I’m too deep in the system for them to get rid of me now.
