I’m starting my fourth master’s degree and yet, somehow, this feels like my first one. For decades, I’ve done school using my work ethic, my mind, perfectionism, and people pleasing. I’m really good at it. But this time, I don’t want that to be the goal, the intention, or the energy behind this degree.

As a kid, I learned to perform. It was my defense mechanism, a way to avoid criticism, negativity, and conflict. As a super-sensitive, shy, introverted little girl, scared of authority, I thought people-pleasing would keep me safe. Sometimes it did. But the cost was high.

I lost my authentic voice. I lost my playfulness, curiosity, foolishness, and risk-taking. I stayed safe. I gave teachers what I thought they wanted instead of what was in my heart. I tried to be enough, but not too much. It kept me in a narrow box that has grown unbearable.

I want to bring my full sensitive, curious, nerdy, awkward, introverted self to this program. I want to share what’s in my heart, not just what will earn an A. I want to push buttons, find edges, fail, wipe out, and pick myself back up. That’s how I’ll find the fullness of me—all of me, edges included. But old habits don’t disappear overnight.

One of my first memories of competition comes from 5th grade, taking the dreaded times table test. I had learned math using “touch math”—dots on the numbers I could count. This made multiplication a nightmare. When a student passed, their test went up on the wall. Each week, fewer kids tested until it was just me, alone, humiliated. I was slow. Dumb. Exposed. I wanted to hide. Looking back, I see how much that system reinforced scarcity. No one remembers who finished first. What if those who had memorized their tables had been invited to teach the rest of us? That would have created connection, belonging, empowerment. Instead, I learned: don’t let them see you struggle.

Years later, at Bowdoin, the competition was just as fierce. We would run to the library to check out the books before anyone else. Sometimes I hoarded them longer than I needed. I cringe to admit it now. That scarcity mindset—believing there’s not enough to go around—made me small.

Much later, I took courses through Landmark Education. In the Landmark Forum, they made a big deal about being on time. If you were late, you were called out. I was never late—I made sure of it. One day, the instructor asked: “Who were you being that someone in your class was late?” Oh, shit. I hadn’t thought of the group’s goal—that everyone arrives together. I only thought about me arriving on time. That question cracked something open.

And I saw the contrast even more clearly in one of my fondest college memories: a senior Environmental Studies class designing trails on an island off the coast of Maine. Instead of competing to make the “best” trail, the class split into groups and collaborated to design three different options.

We carpooled, laughed in the car, walked the land together. We mapped, debated, and dreamed. It was collective creativity at its best. And in the process, I saw someone I had dismissed—the student nicknamed “Stank Ass.” (Yes, really.) But after sharing cars, meals, and conversations, I discovered the hidden beauty I’d missed, Jason. He was funny, thoughtful, and kind. Scarcity had blinded me to him. Cooperation let me really see him.

And isn’t that what it’s all really about, seeing and being seen? A high GPA doesn’t help me do that, but vulnerability and generosity of spirit certainly does.