Forty Minutes and Everything After

Reflections on pressure, preparation, and waiting in the DClinPsy selection process.

There’s a strange kind of heaviness that settles in after you finish something you’ve worked hard on. Not relief exactly - a weight made of hope, doubt, and all the thoughts you can’t quite switch off.

That’s where I find myself. I recently sat the Trent University DClinPsy test - forty minutes that felt like a blur. Time didn’t just move; it folded in on itself. One moment I was grounding myself, reading the question with that familiar mix of focus and adrenaline, and the next I glanced up to see six minutes left on the timer. My stomach dropped. It was as if the whole exam had slipped past me in fast-forward, leaving me trying to gather my thoughts while the clock kept racing ahead. I could feel the heat in my cheeks, the tightness in my chest, that quiet panic I know all too well - the one that whispers, Did I say enough? Did I show enough? Was I enough?

But even in that rush, I felt something new - something I’ve been working hard to build. I caught myself. I grounded myself again. I took a breath that actually reached my lungs, let my shoulders drop, and reminded myself that I can think clearly under pressure. The nerves were there -of course they were- but they didn’t run the show this time. I did.

I prepared. I genuinely did. I read everything Trent makes publicly available about the selection process, the values they look for, the competencies they emphasise. I practised thinking aloud, reflecting, grounding my answers in evidence and experience. I reminded myself that the test isn’t about perfection; it’s about potential, readiness, and the ability to think under pressure.

But this time, the preparation felt deeper. It came from a year of stretching myself - learning, unlearning, questioning, and slowly stepping into a more confident version of who I want to be as a clinician. I’ve been building the kind of inner steadiness that doesn’t come from textbooks, but from showing up again and again, even when things feel overwhelming.

And yet, even with all that preparation, there’s still this lingering uncertainty - not because I didn’t try, but because the test is designed to stretch you. You can’t predict it. You can’t rehearse it. You can’t reverse-engineer what they “want,” because part of what they want is authenticity, clarity of thought, and the ability to hold complexity without collapsing into panic. Those are hard things to measure in forty minutes. They’re even harder to feel confident about afterwards.

What I can say is that I showed up as myself. Not the polished version I sometimes think I need to be, not the version that tries to anticipate what a panel might want - just me. I drew on the experiences that have shaped me in ways I didn’t always choose, the values that have held me together on the days I doubted myself, and the clinical mindset I’ve been building piece by piece, often quietly, often when no one was watching.

I trusted the work I’ve put in - the years of listening deeply, caring fiercely, learning to hold other people’s pain without losing my own footing. And somewhere in the middle of that test, I realised something I didn’t expect: everything I’ve lived through, everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve carried… it all came with me into that room. I wasn’t just answering a question. I was showing them the person I’ve become.

Ambition, Cost, and Courage

There’s something no one tells you about ambition: it costs something. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way, but in the quiet sacrifices that accumulate over months. The evenings spent reading instead of resting. The weekends spent preparing instead of being carefree. The emotional labour of believing in a future version of yourself that no one else can see yet. Applying for the DClinPsy isn’t just an academic process - it’s an act of faith. Faith in your potential. Faith in your resilience. Faith that the person you’re becoming is worth the investment.

And there’s a loneliness to it too, even when you’re surrounded by supportive people. Because no one else sits the test for you. No one else feels the adrenaline spike, the self-doubt, the hope. No one else carries the weight of your dream in their chest. It’s a solitary kind of courage - the kind that doesn’t get applause or recognition, but still matters. Still shapes you. Still counts.

Wanting something this much is vulnerable. It exposes the softest parts of you - the parts that care, the parts that fear disappointment, the parts that dare to imagine a different future. It would be easier not to want it. Easier to pretend it doesn’t matter. But I’ve learned that protecting yourself from disappointment also protects you from growth. And I’m tired of shrinking to avoid the possibility of falling short. I’d rather want this fully, even if it scares me.

People talk about the DClinPsy application process like it’s a ladder - step one, step two, step three. But it’s not a ladder. It’s a landscape. Uneven, unpredictable, full of detours and steep climbs. Some people get there quickly. Others take years. And the timeline says nothing about worth, or ability, or potential. I’ve had to remind myself of that more times than I can count. My journey isn’t late. It isn’t behind. It’s mine. And it’s unfolding exactly as it needs to.

Growth and Identity Shift

When I look back at who I was even a year ago, I can see the difference. Not in big, dramatic ways, but in the subtle shifts - the way I speak up more, the way I trust my instincts, the way I hold space for others without losing myself. Growth doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it’s just the quiet realisation that you handled something today with more grace than you could have managed last year. And that matters. That counts.

Showing up for that test wasn’t just about the DClinPsy. It was about proving to myself that I can stand in the arena, even when I’m scared. That I can hold my nerve. That I can back myself. There’s a version of me - an older version - who would have talked herself out of even applying. Who would have convinced herself she wasn’t ready, wasn’t good enough, wasn’t “the type.” But I’m not her anymore. And sitting that test was proof of that.

Maybe that’s what this stage is really about: learning to live in the space between what you gave and what you can’t yet know. It’s a strange, fragile place - this waiting - where hope and doubt sit side by side, taking turns in your chest. It asks something of you that no textbook ever prepares you for: to trust yourself without proof, to believe in your own effort even when the outcome is out of your hands.

And that’s harder than any test.

But when I look back at those forty minutes, I feel something I didn’t expect: pride. Not the loud, triumphant kind - the quiet, steady kind that sits behind your ribs and reminds you that you showed up with everything you had. I’m proud of the work I put in, not just this week or this month, but over the years - the late nights, the emotional labour, the moments of doubt I pushed through, the times I kept going even when it felt like I was miles behind everyone else.

I’m proud that when the pressure hit, I didn’t disappear into myself. I stayed present. I stayed thoughtful. I stayed honest. I answered with the integrity I’ve been building piece by piece, through every person I’ve supported, every challenge I’ve faced, every moment I’ve questioned whether I was enough and kept going anyway.

And maybe that’s the part that almost brings me to tears - the realisation that the woman who walked into that test is not the same woman who started this journey all those years ago. She’s steadier. Braver. Softer in the right places and stronger in the ones that used to shake. She’s someone who can hold uncertainty without breaking, someone who can hope without apologising for it.

Whatever happens next, that version of me is real. And she’s worth being proud of.

Waiting, Hope, and Continuing Forward

Now comes the waiting - the part no one trains you for. There’s no handbook for this stretch of time, no framework to lean on, no reflective model that makes the uncertainty feel tidy or manageable. It’s just you, your thoughts, and the echo of everything you’ve poured into this journey. It’s strange how heavy hope can feel when you’re holding it quietly, how it sits in your chest like something both fragile and fierce.

This is the part where you realise how much you care. How much you’ve invested. How much of yourself you’ve allowed to want this. And that wanting - that brave, vulnerable wanting - is its own kind of courage.

The outcome will come when it comes. And yes, I want the interview. I want the chance to sit in front of a panel and show them who I am beyond a timed test. I want the opportunity to speak from the heart about why this work matters to me. But I also know that my worth isn’t tied to a single decision. My journey doesn’t end here - it expands from here, whatever direction it takes.

Whatever happens next, I know this: I’ve taken a step toward the career I want, and that alone is worth acknowledging. Not in a dismissive, “at least I tried” way, but in a way that honours the person I’ve become through this process. The person who showed up. The person who steadied herself. The person who didn’t shrink from the challenge, even when the clock was racing and her heart was pounding.

If an interview invitation comes, I’ll meet it with the same honesty and determination that carried me through that test. And if it doesn’t, the work I’ve done doesn’t evaporate. It doesn’t lose value. It becomes part of the next attempt, the next opportunity, the next version of me - the one who keeps growing, keeps learning, keeps stepping forward even when the path isn’t guaranteed.

For now, I’m letting myself hope. Quietly, cautiously, but genuinely. Because hope, even in its softest form, is an act of strength. And I’m learning to hold it with both hands.

Author’s Note:  I wrote this piece in the days after completing the Trent University DClinPsy test - not to analyse the process, but to honour the emotional reality of pursuing something that matters deeply. This journey has stretched me, steadied me, and changed me in ways I didn’t expect. If you’re walking a similar path, I hope you find comfort in knowing you’re not alone in the waiting, the wanting, or the becoming.