In the whirlwind of the back-in-school world, where every interaction felt like a chance to make an impression, I had thrown myself into building connections and being as likable as possible. So when one of my “friends” told me that some people didn’t like me, the news hit me like a sucker punch. My first reaction was a sinking feeling of embarrassment and rejection. But as her words settled in, I couldn’t help but wonder: Why did she feel the need to tell me this?
The way she said it wasn’t exactly gentle, nor was it helpful or constructive. It was more like an offhand comment, delivered with a touch of smugness that left me questioning her intentions. Was she genuinely concerned for me, or was she subtly enjoying the drama of watching me squirm? The more I thought about it, the more unsettled I felt. If she really was a friend, wouldn’t she have found a more supportive way to bring it up—or maybe not mentioned it at all?
As my mind spiraled through every possible explanation for why she’d dropped that bombshell on me, I felt myself regressing to my high school self. The insecurities I thought I’d grown out of came rushing back. I felt the desperate need to be liked, to be accepted, to be someone who fit in seamlessly with the crowd. My maturity and self-confidence seemed to evaporate in that moment, replaced by a surge of anxiety and self-doubt.
I obsessively replayed every interaction I’d had, trying to pinpoint where I might have gone wrong. My brain was a whirlwind of self-criticism: Did I say something stupid? Did I come off as too intense? Was I trying too hard or not hard enough? The thought of people whispering about me, judging me, or rolling their eyes at my presence made my stomach turn. I was hyper-aware of how the desire to be universally liked had snuck back into my life, and it felt embarrassing, like a weakness I’d failed to overcome.
Feeling utterly defeated, I couldn’t help but retreat into myself. I wanted to curl up and hide from the world, or maybe confront my “friend” and ask why she felt the need to put me through this. Instead, I confided in some people I truly trusted. Friends who listened without judgment, who offered me the kind of comfort that made me realize how irrational and unproductive my spiral was. One of them gently reminded me, “You’re not going to be everyone’s cup of tea—and that’s okay.”
As I reflected on everything, I started to make peace with the idea that not everyone was going to like me. People are complicated, and their opinions are shaped by their own experiences, biases, and insecurities. It wasn’t always about me or something I’d done wrong. More importantly, I realized that the delivery of this “news” might have had more to do with my so-called friend than with me. Her intentions, whatever they were, didn’t have to define how I saw myself.
It took time, but I managed to reframe the experience. Maybe my “friend” wanted to shake my confidence, or maybe she was genuinely clueless about how hurtful her words were. Either way, I decided I wouldn’t let her comment have power over me. I wasn’t going to bend over backward trying to win over people who didn’t like me—or question the friendships I knew were genuine.
I reminded myself that I’d worked too hard to get here, that I was in Oxford for a reason, and that I had made connections with people who did see my worth. It was an important reminder that trying to be everything to everyone was a game I could never win—and one I didn’t have to play. My worth wasn’t up for debate, especially not by people who didn’t really know me.
In the end, I had to accept that not everyone would be a fan, and that’s part of life. The more I thought about it, the more I understood that this journey was about authenticity, about being true to myself and valuing the connections that mattered. And if some people didn’t like me? So be it. I had better things to focus on—like living my life fully, imperfectly, and on my own terms.