I grew up as a “gifted student.” In elementary school, I was placed in the special advanced classes, and I was shrouded in gold stars and praise. Middle school saw honors class after honors class, academic award after academic award. Straight-A’s were easy for people like me, and maybe we were a little too proud of that. By now, we had spent a good eight or nine years believing we belonged to something special, that we were just a little bit better than everyone else. After all, that’s all our parents and teachers ever told us. For so many of us, however, high school was where this idealized reality came crumbling down.

In my experience at least, high school was an era where everything was just more. More homework, more difficult classes, more responsibilities, more stress — it felt as though we were all stuck in a competition of who could do the most without cracking from the pressure.

I was one of the few who couldn’t keep up. I had spent the entirety of my academic career riding on the misplaced pride that I was one of the smartest students. I still remember the third quarter of my seventh-grade year. The lowest report card grade I received was a 97 percent. I aced every single math test, reading quiz, science lab — you name it. My science teacher even wrote me a letter home over winter break, congratulating me on receiving a perfect score on my midterm exam. These days were never to happen again.

These days, I brought home failed Calculus tests and less-than-stellar English essays. I sat back and watched with defeat as I dropped out of AP classes that my friends blew through with flying colors. People used to come to me for homework help because I was the “studious girl,” the one who always finished worksheets early. Now I was the kid sitting next to you, begging for your help on how to find the velocity of a moving particle. In short, I felt stupid.

To some people, this is a ridiculous problem, a selfish, egoistic one even. Here I stand, a lucky student gifted with the ability to even be in Calculus yet I complain that I’m an idiot. Here’s the thing, though. People like me, we have intertwined our identities so deeply with academics that when we fall from the top, we lose sight of who we are. Yes, I recognize that I am intelligent and am somehow talented enough to do things some people may never do. I understand my privilege, but these feelings of doubt are still valid. You can attend Harvard and still struggle with this problem because emotional insecurity has no boundaries or limitations.

When I try to explain this to people, I picture a bell curve. The first one includes every student, and I reside on the right with all the other gifted students. Zoom in just a little, however, and I slip further back to the left. On the scale of all gift and talented people, I often feel as though I barely made the cut. I was rejected from UC Berkeley and UCLA. I never stood a chance at an Ivy League, and even colleges that I was positive I would be accepted to left me on the waitlist. I cheer my friends on as they get to participate in incredible research opportunities but question my worth when I’m home alone. I am currently studying Psychology, yet even that doesn’t seem good enough compared to my friends who are STEM majors.

It would be a dream to say I am comfortable with who I am now, but I would be lying. Most days, I still feel like I didn’t try hard enough and everything I missed out on is on me. Coming to terms with no longer being a top student is a never-ending process. Whenever these thoughts try to tear me down, it takes everything in me to count the things I have accomplished. It’s unnervingly easy to compare yourself to others, yet one of the hardest things to do is to acknowledge how far you’ve come. I often have to remind myself that success is defined by what is valuable to the person, not society. If studying to become a therapist means I’ll be happier than working on a cure for cancer, then I might be winning in the end after all.