Pressing Submit (Again): Applying for DClinPsy

Applying for the DClinPsy for the second year in a row was a very different experience from the first, and I was surprised by just how much had shifted in me over the past twelve months. Last year, everything felt raw, high‑stakes, and slightly overwhelming. I remember sitting at my laptop late into the night, rereading every sentence as if the entire trajectory of my life depended on the placement of a comma. I was driven, yes, but I was also anxious in a way that felt consuming.

This year, I’ve come back to the process with a steadier head, a clearer sense of who I am, and a much deeper understanding of why experience matters, not just professionally, but personally. The nerves didn’t disappear, but they changed shape. They became something I could work with rather than something that worked against me.

The application itself felt familiar, almost like revisiting a place I’d once lived in. The forms, the questions, the structure, they were all recognizable, but I wasn’t the same person filling them out. I’ve spent the past year working on myself - my anxiety, understanding it, and learning how to manage it in a way that feels sustainable. That work has made a difference. I didn’t approach the application with the same sense of dread or urgency. Instead, I approached it with a kind of grounded anticipation. I still hovered over the submit button, of course, but the feeling was different. It wasn’t panic. It was a quiet, steady awareness that I had done what I could, and that I was ready to let go.

Perfectionism, Anxiety, and Learning to Write From Within

This year, the process felt different in ways that surprised me. I didn’t rush to fill in the application or panic about whether my references would be submitted on time. Instead, I approached each stage with a steadier rhythm, trusting that the preparation I had done would carry me through. That sense of ease wasn’t about caring less; it was about caring differently. I felt more mature, more grounded, and more able to hold the uncertainty without letting it spiral into anxiety.

Last year’s experience wasn’t detrimental, as I once feared. It was developmental. It taught me more about myself than I expected. It taught me how I respond under pressure, how I cope with uncertainty, and how I make sense of disappointment. It taught me that resilience isn’t something you talk about in an application, it’s something you live through. And it taught me that the journey to becoming a clinical psychologist isn’t just about accumulating experience; it’s about understanding yourself deeply enough to sit with discomfort, reflect honestly, and keep moving forward even when the outcome is uncertain.

This year, two new questions appeared on the form, and the word counts expanded. On the surface, that sounds like a gift, more space to express myself, more room to breathe. But in reality, it meant more space to think, reflect, and articulate who I’ve become since last year. The difference was that I didn’t fill that space with self‑doubt. I filled it with clarity. I wasn’t trying to sound like the “perfect” candidate. I was trying to sound like myself, a woman who has lived, learned, and grown, and who understands the value of experience not because someone told her it mattered, but because she has felt the impact of it in her bones.

Coming back as a second‑year applicant gave me a perspective I simply didn’t have the first time. I wasn’t starting from scratch. I had lived experience of the process, the application, the tests, the interview. I now know what it feels like to sit in that online waiting room, to answer questions under pressure, to walk away replaying every moment. And although I didn’t get the outcome I hoped for last year, I walked away with something of real value: insight. That insight has shaped every part of my application this year. I wasn’t writing from a place of trying to impress. I was writing from a place of understanding - understanding myself, understanding the profession, and understanding the emotional stamina this journey requires.

The nerves still showed up, of course. They always do when something matters. But they didn’t overwhelm me in the way they once did. The nerves sharpened my focus. They made me double‑check details, not out of fear, but out of care. They reminded me that this application isn’t just a formality, it’s a step toward something I’ve worked hard for. But I also recognised the tipping point. Last year, I crossed it. I let the anxiety spiral into self‑critique and catastrophising. This year, I caught myself earlier. When my heart raced or my mind replayed “what ifs,” I paused. I breathed. I reminded myself that perfection wasn’t the goal, authenticity was.

Another difference this year was how I allowed myself to keep enjoying my hobbies alongside the application process. Last year, I felt guilty stepping away from the laptop, as if every spare moment had to be spent editing. This year, I recognised that balance matters. Making time for the things I love outside of psychology reminded me that resilience isn’t just about coping with stress, it’s about sustaining joy and perspective.

Understanding the psychology behind my nerves has helped me stay grounded. The act of submitting an application is neutral. It’s the meaning I attach to it that shapes my emotional response. Last year, I saw submission as a threat, a moment that could expose my inadequacies or close doors. This year, I saw it as a challenge. A step forward. A chance to show how far I’ve come. That shift changed everything. When I framed the process as a threat, the anxiety surged. When I framed it as a challenge, the same energy became motivating. It pushed me to reflect more deeply, write more honestly, and trust myself more fully.

I also held onto the reality that the journey isn’t linear. I know people who got interviews one year and not the next. I know people who were rejected twice and accepted on their third attempt. The unpredictability used to terrify me. Now, it reminds me that one outcome doesn’t define my worth or my future. The worry right now is about whether I’ll get an interview this time, but even that worry feels different. It’s not rooted in fear of failure. It’s rooted in hope. Hope that the work I’ve done, the growth I’ve experienced, and the clarity I’ve gained will carry me further this time.

Perfectionism still played a role this year, but I engaged with it differently. Having spent a large part of my undergraduate degree researching perfectionism for my dissertation, particularly through the lens of Hewitt and Flett’s multidimensional model, I became much more attuned to the complexities of how it shows up in my thinking. Their distinction between self‑oriented, socially prescribed, and other‑oriented perfectionism helped me make sense of the internal dynamics I experienced during last year’s application. At the time, I felt the weight of socially prescribed perfectionism most intensely, the sense that selectors, supervisors, and even the profession itself held impossibly high expectations that I needed to meet. It wasn’t that anyone explicitly demanded perfection; it was the pressure I imagined, the standards I projected onto others, and the fear of falling short of what I believed they wanted.

This year, that awareness has changed everything. Instead of letting perfectionism dictate my voice, I recognised it for what I believe it is: an internalised narrative rather than an external truth. I could see how last year I had conflated my own self‑oriented perfectionism, my genuine desire to produce thoughtful, reflective work, with the imagined expectations of others. Understanding that distinction allowed me to reclaim my voice. I wasn’t writing to impress an invisible audience; I was writing to articulate who I am and how I’ve grown.

What struck me most was how much more compassionately I could observe my own perfectionistic tendencies. Hewitt and Flett emphasise that perfectionism isn’t inherently maladaptive; it becomes problematic when it’s rigid, punitive, or driven by fear. Last year, my perfectionism was fear‑based, fear of being judged, fear of being “found out,” fear of not being enough. This year, it felt more values‑driven. I still hold high standards for myself, but they come from a place of wanting to produce work that reflects my integrity and growth, not from a place of trying to avoid criticism. That shift felt subtle but significant.

I also noticed how the Imposter Phenomenon intertwined with these perfectionistic patterns. Last year, the sense of fraudulence amplified my socially prescribed perfectionism; I felt I had to overcompensate to prove I belonged. This year, that voice was quieter. Not gone, but softened. I’ve spent the past year accumulating experiences that challenged the imposter narrative, and I’ve learned to recognise when that voice is speaking from old fears rather than present reality. That awareness helped me approach the application with more authenticity and less self‑protection.

Experience, Agency and Readiness

One of the biggest shifts came from work. Taking on the responsibility of managing another team forced me to step into a level of leadership I might not have believed I was ready for a year ago. But my colleagues did. Their trust in me, their willingness to come to me for guidance, support, and decisions, became a kind of evidence I couldn’t ignore. It wasn’t praise or flattery; it was day‑to‑day confidence in my ability to perform well, navigate challenges, and lead with steadiness. That experience chipped away at the old imposter narrative in a way that theory alone never could. It showed me that the gap between how I see myself and how others see me isn’t always a sign of inadequacy; sometimes it’s a sign that I’m growing into roles before I fully recognise my own readiness.

Alongside my professional role, I’ve invested my spare time in expanding my knowledge. I’ve taken part in mini courses, explored new areas of psychology, and sought out opportunities to deepen my understanding of the profession. These experiences weren’t just about adding lines to my CV; they were about cultivating curiosity and showing myself that growth doesn’t only happen in formal placements. That commitment to learning outside of work gave me confidence that I am actively shaping my development, rather than waiting for it to happen. However, only recently, I’ve come to realise that exploring every possible area of psychology isn’t always necessary or even helpful; what matters most is engaging deeply with the areas I feel genuinely drawn to. Recognising this has made my learning feel more focused, meaningful, and aligned with who I want to become as a practitioner.

If last year taught me anything, it’s that experience isn’t just a box to tick. It’s transformative. Experience teaches you how to sit with discomfort. How to reflect honestly. How to understand your own patterns, your anxieties, your strengths, your blind spots. It teaches you how to show up authentically, not performatively. This year, I didn’t just write about growth. I felt it. I lived it. And that made the application feel more grounded, more mature, and more aligned with who I am - a woman who has lived, learned, and continued to move forward even when the path wasn’t straightforward.

When I finally pressed submit, it wasn’t fear that washed over me it was release. Release of weeks of reflection, writing, and growth. More importantly, it was a statement of readiness. This year’s application doesn’t just demonstrate resilience; it reflects the maturity, clarity, and authenticity I’ve worked hard to cultivate. Whether the outcome is an interview or not, the process itself has shown that I am prepared to contribute meaningfully to the profession. That, to me, is progress worth celebrating and a foundation I’m proud to build upon.