By: Destine Manson

I wasn’t supposed to be here. It’s something we constantly hear from people after achieving a major milestone and from people who find themselves in the worst moment of their lives. Fortunately, it was the former rather than the latter in this instance. Imposter syndrome first reared its ugly head around the corner in my senior year of high school when I had the dream of going to New York University.

At this time, I didn’t pay the slight inkling of impossibility any mind. When I walked into my academic counselor’s office, I was confident. I told him my top 10 schools and explained why I wanted to apply to each one. I had NYU placed as my number one choice. No one else from my high school was applying, let alone had any aspirations of going to school in New York City. It wasn’t that no one could have. There were plenty of creative and art-savvy students at my high school that would have thrived in the Manhattan arts scenes, but a lack of money and encouragement from the community around us kept most of my high school friends from leaving the state of Georgia. NYU recruiters were more likely to go to surrounding high schools in areas where the parents made a lot more money.

“NYU, huh. Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” I shrugged in response.

I was more than sure. It wasn’t that I thought I would get in. I didn’t think I would get into NYU at all. The acceptance rate was extremely low, but after visiting NYU for my uncle’s graduate graduation, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Manhattan felt like a second home to me instantly somehow. Everything felt oddly familiar, from swiping the MTA card for the first time to having conversations with my uncle’s friends in the center of campus at Gould Plaza. I kept thinking, “this was where I am supposed to be.” I had this vision of myself running around New York City with my little journalist notepad and backpack.

“That’s a really expensive school,” my high school counselor reminded me.

That’s when I started convincing myself that it was just a dream anyway. I let out a small laugh in response. He didn’t smile much when I didn’t seem to react to the 70k price tag with a sense of urgency. He just shrugged off the idea and asked about my more “possible” choices. I told him my options, but I still went to the library to research more scholarships that would add up to $70,000.

My whole life I grew up with my dad telling me I could do absolutely anything in the world as long as I set my mind to it. It was just my dad and me in the house my whole life, so he was the first to know many of my big decisions. He was my biggest supporter with everything I decided to do, whether I chose to become a spelling bee champion, competitive dancer, or journalist in New York City. When I first told him I was interested in going to NYU, he had his own ideas about other options but encouraged me to apply.

When I told the rest of my family about NYU, I was met with the same skepticism that my counselor expressed. My aunt suggested I go to schools that she was more familiar with. My cousins suggested I go to a school that was less expensive. Overall, my family wanted me to continue the tradition of going to a historically black college or university (HBCU) like the rest of my cousins did.

The college process quickly became a lot more stressful than I anticipated. I realized that it was about more than just where I was getting an education. My dad and aunt were the first generation from my immediate family to attend college. To my grandma and her generation, their careers as public school teachers felt like making it to the big leagues. They could now own more than my grandmother’s generation would never fathom growing up in their small town. Now, it seemed like which college I went to would also determine the kind of adult I would be. Questions swirled in my head about the fate of my identity that I had never worried about before. Would I lose parts of my Black identity if I went to a PWI? Would I be able to fit in at a place like New York City? Would there be a community that wanted me?

I opened my admission decision to NYU on a random school night while checking my email. I opened it calmly, expecting a rejection notice. To my surprise, I let out a quiet “oh my God” when I saw “Congratulations!” I knocked on my dad’s door to tell him the news. His face expressed the same shock that I felt. When I told my dad that that was where I wanted to go, I remember him telling me that we would make it happen if I was sure.

My dad and my godmother were the first to really embrace the idea. It was understandable why my family and friends were so apprehensive. Historically, when Black people leave the safety nets of our own communities in the United States, we are met with fake smiles and questioned about our value in predominantly white institutions. I knew this could happen to me at NYU, but I also felt a strong pull to the city and what I imagined myself doing there. I didn’t want any kind of fear to inhibit me from achieving the big things I was capable of. It was a leap of faith, not just for me but for my parents and everyone back home who could never dream of going to school far away in an unfamiliar city.

When I arrived to move in, my nerves had me shaking with excitement and disbelief. When my parents dropped me off, the first thought I had was that I had to do everything possible to show my family back home and myself that I was worth betting on.

Now I feel that same mix of excitement and disbelief when I think about graduation. Everyone wants to know what comes next. Little do they know, I am even more eager to know what’s next than they are. As a recent graduate, I am constantly presenting myself to different recruiters and begging them to see how I could fit in well with their publication. Every week I attend career fairs and apply to as many jobs as I can in between schoolwork, fearing that if I don’t secure a job as soon as possible, everyone will think they were right in declaring that NYU was never worth it to begin with. Imposter syndrome thrives best in fear-heightened situations.

I have a much bigger support system to fight back against imposter syndrome this time around. Coming to NYU has been worth it for me in more ways than one. I met so many amazing friends here that helped me get through the last four years. They exposed me to many other facets of American culture I had never experienced before coming here. They checked on me when I was going through things I could never tell my parents about and bought me meals during weeks where my hours were cut short at my job. I realized through conversations with them that I was not the only one in New York City that felt like they may have just gotten lucky and ended up here.

With each “I regret to inform you” and “unfortunately we have decided to pursue another candidate,” my experience at NYU has helped me discover that every "no" is not an affirmation of anyone who told me I couldn’t do it. Instead, it is just one step closer to where I am supposed to be. My NYU decision was the last one to come out of all the colleges I applied to. I wouldn’t be surprised if my journey into adulthood surprises me at the last second in the same way.