When I imagined life as an MBA student at Oxford, I pictured deep, intellectual conversations, grand debates over the future of business, and the sharing of bold ideas with some of the brightest minds from around the world. What I didn’t expect was the gossip.
Yes, gossip. The kind of surface-level, high school-esque chatter that thrives in tight-knit groups of people who spend too much time together. The first time I overheard it, I was so taken aback that I had to double-check my surroundings. Was this really happening at one of the world’s most prestigious institutions? Were we not supposed to be above this?
The topics were petty, the tone conspiratorial. Who was dating whom. Who had been “overly confident” in a class discussion. Who had maybe fudged a detail or two on their resume. It was like a grown-up version of teenage drama, wrapped in polished business casual attire. For all the wealth, power, and influence many of my classmates might someday wield, here we were, dissecting each other’s personal lives as if we had nothing better to do.
At first, I felt disillusioned. These were people I looked up to, people who had founded startups, managed millions of dollars, advised governments, and climbed corporate ladders. How could they indulge in something so trivial? Weren’t we all supposed to be focused on loftier goals? The whole thing felt out of place, like gossip shouldn’t exist in a room full of ambitious, high-achieving adults.
But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. Beneath the layers of impressive titles and achievements, we were all just people. And people—regardless of social status, wealth, or intelligence—are inherently flawed, emotional, and occasionally petty. Oxford didn’t magically transform us into paragons of professionalism. It brought together a group of individuals, each with their own insecurities, egos, and desires to fit in. Gossip, it seemed, was simply a byproduct of our shared humanity.
What surprised me most was how this realization changed my perspective. I stopped putting people on pedestals. It became clear that no matter how “high” someone might appear—whether it was their job title, the size of their paycheck, or their prestigious background—they were still just a person. They had the same messy emotions, the same desire to belong, and yes, even the same tendency to indulge in gossip as anyone else.
I also realized that the gossip wasn’t always malicious. Sure, some of it stung, and there were moments when I wondered if people were saying similar things about me behind my back. But at its core, it was often born out of boredom or the need to connect. People gossiped because it was easy, because it created a fleeting sense of camaraderie, even if it came at someone else’s expense. It wasn’t right, but it wasn’t entirely surprising either.
This lesson hit home one day when I found myself venting about someone in the program. In my frustration, I’d slipped into the same kind of behavior I’d been so quick to judge. It was a humbling moment, one that forced me to confront my own flaws and recognize that I was just as human as everyone else.
In the end, the gossip taught me something valuable: there’s no need to glorify anyone. No matter how accomplished someone might seem, they’re still just a person, navigating life with the same mix of strengths and shortcomings as everyone else. We all have our moments of brilliance and our moments of pettiness, our triumphs and our insecurities.
Oxford, for all its grandeur and prestige, wasn’t immune to the quirks of human nature. And in a strange way, that made it feel a little more real, a little more grounded. It reminded me that even in the most elevated circles, people are still people—messy, emotional, and wonderfully imperfect.