I’ve never quite fit in.
Not in school, not in social circles, and—though I hoped otherwise—not entirely in academia either. Growing up in a post-Soviet Eastern European country, I lived through an era of transition where identity—both national and personal—was a murky concept. Mental health was a taboo, neurodivergence was misunderstood or dismissed entirely, and vulnerability was mistaken for weakness.
I didn’t have the language to describe what I was experiencing. Anxiety. OCD. The feeling of being fundamentally different. These weren’t topics for the dinner table or school counselling (if there even was one). It wasn’t until my twenties—after moving to the UK and starting my journey into psychology—that I could begin to make sense of it. Medication helped, learning helped, and slowly, the words came. But it took nearly two decades to start speaking openly.
Psychology, at first, felt like home. A space where you could be curious, where the quirky and eccentric were expected, even welcome. Academia promised a place for those who never quite belonged elsewhere. I thought, maybe here, I’d stop being “other.” And to a point, that was true—I found kindred spirits, shared language, understanding.
But the story didn’t end there.
Because academia has its own unspoken rules of belonging. And as an early career researcher, you're reminded of them often. The infantilisation, the pressure, the limbo. You're no longer a student, but not quite “real” faculty. Despite everything you’ve achieved, it still feels like you’re constantly trying to prove your worth. You burn out quietly while preaching balance, mentoring students while silently questioning your own future.
And when you layer in neurodivergence—still misunderstood, even in psychology—and the immigrant experience, the outsider feeling only deepens. We talk about inclusion, but inclusion isn’t just policy—it’s culture, it’s belonging, it’s being seen as you are and not as who you’ve learned to perform.
So what helps? I don’t have a perfect answer. But I know what might: seeing yourself represented in leadership. Hearing voices like yours speak loud, unfiltered truths. Peer support and mentorship that goes beyond career advice and actually holds space for identity struggles, for the mental load of being “different.”
I’ve seen too many brilliant minds crack under pressure, walk away, or quietly disappear from the spaces they once dreamed of occupying. And while changing direction isn’t failure—far from it—I often wonder how different those stories might have been in a more supportive system. One where vulnerability was met with care, not consequence.
Until then, I’ll keep going. Keep speaking. Keep finding and amplifying those voices that remind us we’re not alone in this messy, complicated, brilliant pursuit of belonging.