Still Trying, Still Becoming

I didn’t set out to become a psychologist. My early life was shaped more by survival than ambition - juggling school, a part-time job, and long commutes just to make it to class. I landed in banking, a career that offered stability but never quite satisfied my curiosity about the human mind.

That curiosity began in childhood. I’m ambidextrous, but I naturally wrote with my left hand. At a family gathering, my aunt - who lived with schizophrenia - pointed at me and screamed that I was a witch, simply because I was left-handed. The room froze, but I wasn’t scared. I was fascinated. Her conviction, her intensity - it was like witnessing the raw power of belief.

That moment changed me. At school, being left-handed meant sitting at a designated lefty table, always marked as different. After my aunt’s outburst, I switched to writing with my right hand overnight. Yet I continued to hold my knife and fork in the so called wrong hands. Why did my brain categorise one behaviour as needing to change, and the other as safe to keep?

That early experience planted a seed - a quiet, persistent curiosity about how the mind works. I didn’t pursue psychology straight away. I built a career in banking, then moved into engineering, each role offering something practical but never quite answering the questions that lingered beneath. Over time, those questions grew louder. They began to shape how I saw the world, how I listened to others, how I understood myself. Eventually, I stopped resisting and followed them - into psychology, into people’s stories, and into the work that finally felt like home.

Changing careers was a big decision - especially without A-levels, since I’d started full-time work at 16. Returning to education through an Access to University course meant juggling study with everyday life. It was tough, but I was driven, and earning the grades to study Psychology at university felt like a major win.

Going into the degree, I thought I’d be learning about others - how people think, feel, and behave. What I didn’t expect was how much of myself I’d have to confront along the way. Psychology isn’t just academically demanding - it’s emotionally relentless. You’re constantly unpacking the human condition, and sometimes, your own. One moment I’d be in tears, overwhelmed by deadlines and self-doubt; the next, I’d be buzzing from a grade that made it all feel worth it. I put immense pressure on myself to succeed, and that weight only grew heavier each year.

By the final stretch, personal grief collided with something deeper - a trauma trigger I hadn’t seen coming. It shook me. Studying psychology can stir up buried emotions and force you to face parts of yourself you thought were settled. You’re not just learning about mental health - you’re living through it. And no textbook prepares you for that.

Studying psychology didn’t just teach me about others - it forced me to confront myself. I began to notice patterns in my own thinking, defense mechanisms I’d relied on for years, and the subtle ways trauma had shaped my worldview. Learning about the brain’s plasticity gave me hope; understanding attachment theory helped me make sense of my relationships. Psychology became a mirror, and sometimes, that reflection was hard to face. But it also gave me language for my pain, tools for my healing, and a framework to help others do the same.

By the time I graduated, I wasn’t just proud - I was changed. I’d gained knowledge, yes, but also learnt of my own resilience, self-awareness, and a deeper understanding of what it means to hold space for others while navigating your own healing. Psychology had become more than a subject - it was a mirror, a challenge, and ultimately, a path I was ready to walk with purpose.

I knew that after graduating, I needed real, face-to-face experience - something that would ground all the theory I’d absorbed and help me connect with people beyond the textbook. I’d already spent time volunteering with people living with dementia, and that experience had left a mark. It was raw, human, and deeply moving. So, I chose to step into the world I already knew had meaning. Working with people affected by dementia became my starting point - not just to build experience, but to learn what it truly means to support someone through vulnerability, confusion, and change.

Working as a Dementia Advisor wasn’t just a job - it was a crash course in humanity. I stepped into people’s lives at a time when everything felt uncertain, and I had to learn quickly how to be both practical and deeply compassionate. Every day was different, and every person taught me something new - not just about dementia, but about resilience, love, and the quiet strength people carry when facing the hardest chapters of their lives.

I came to understand that dementia isn’t one thing - it’s many things. Each diagnosis brought its own challenges, and each family had their own story. I wasn’t just learning clinical facts; I was learning how to listen, how to explain the unexplainable, and how to sit with someone in their grief without rushing to fix it. There were moments of heartbreak - watching someone lose pieces of themselves - and moments of unexpected joy, like seeing a person light up at a familiar song or a photo from years ago.

Being the person families turned to after a diagnosis was humbling. I felt the weight of their trust, and I carried it carefully. I helped them plan for the future, but I also stood beside them in the present - through confusion, fear, and sometimes, the final goodbye. Those moments taught me what it really means to hold space for someone. Not to rescue, not to advise, but to simply be there.

There were days I went home emotionally drained, questioning whether I’d done enough. And there were days I felt proud - proud of the small wins, the quiet breakthroughs, the dignity we managed to preserve. The role asked a lot of me, but it gave even more in return. It deepened my empathy, sharpened my instincts, and reminded me why I chose psychology in the first place: because people matter. Their stories matter. And being able to walk alongside them, even briefly, is a privilege I’ll never take for granted.

Now, I manage a team within the same charity, and the work remains just as humbling. I’m still walking alongside carers and those living with dementia, still witnessing the quiet impact that compassionate support can have on someone’s life. The role continues to be deeply rooted in mental health, offering me rich, hands-on experience that strengthens my foundation for clinical psychology. It’s not just about practical help - it’s about connecting with people on a psychological level, understanding their capacity, their fears, and their resilience. Every conversation deepens my grasp of mental capacity and sharpens the empathy and communication skills that are essential in this field. It’s a space where theory meets reality, and where I continue to grow into the kind of clinician I aspire to be - one who listens deeply, thinks critically, and never loses sight of the human behind the diagnosis.

After everything I’d learned and lived through, applying for the Doctorate in Clinical Psychology felt like the natural next step - but also the most daunting. I’d heard the stories: how competitive it was, how unforgiving the process could be. But nothing quite prepares you for the emotional toll of wanting something so deeply. It wasn’t just an application - it was a reckoning with every part of myself.

The form alone was a marathon. Every section asked me to dig into my life, my experiences, my motivations - and then tie them all back to clinical psychology with clarity and purpose. It felt like putting my heart on paper, knowing it would be scrutinised. I second-guessed every sentence. Was I saying too much? Not enough? Was I even good enough?

The self-doubt crept in constantly. I’d sit with my laptop, staring at the screen, feeling like an imposter. The pressure was intense - not just to get it right, but to prove to myself that I belonged in this field. I wanted it so badly, and that kind of longing comes with a heavy dose of anxiety. There were days I felt completely overwhelmed, questioning whether I was capable, whether I’d ever be seen.

I knew I couldn’t do it alone. I reached out to Van, my old university supervisor and the creator of this website; his guidance was a lifeline. He helped me shape my experiences into something coherent and compelling, and reminded me that my story mattered. Without his support, I don’t think I would’ve had the courage to submit my application.

When I found out I’d been shortlisted by both the University of Lincoln and the University of Leicester, I cried. It felt like validation - not just of my application, but of the years of hard work, the setbacks, the growth. The selection processes were intense. Lincoln’s test pushed me to my limits, and Leicester’s interview was a full-on half-day assessment: a panel interview with seasoned clinicians, a research critique, and a presentation on why I want to be a Clinical Psychologist. I walked out emotionally drained but proud. I’d shown up fully, and that mattered.

In the end, I didn’t get a place this year. It stung. I won’t pretend it didn’t. But it wasn’t failure - it was a pause. A moment to regroup, reflect, and come back stronger. This experience taught me more than I expected - not just about the profession, but about myself. I know now that I can handle the pressure, the vulnerability, the uncertainty. I’m still on this path, and I’m more committed than ever.

That said, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared. The emotional toll of applying again feels daunting. The self-doubt still lingers, whispering that maybe I don’t have enough experience yet, or that I’m not quite ready. I love working with people with dementia - it’s meaningful, grounding, and deeply human. The thought of stepping away from that to gain broader experience feels like a loss in itself. I’m torn between what I know I need to do and what I care about most. It’s messy, emotional, and uncertain - but I’m still here, still trying, and still holding onto the belief that I’ll get there.

As I continue to grow - through reading, reflection, and the rawness of lived experience - I’ve come to see psychology not just as a discipline, but as a way of being. My understanding deepens with every conversation, every moment of stillness, every story that challenges me to look beyond the surface. I’ve started to recognise patterns in myself too: the hypervigilance I once saw as a flaw now feels like a thread of survival woven through my past. Exploring trauma-informed approaches has helped me make sense of that, showing me how the body holds memory and how healing rarely follows a straight line. These lessons aren’t just academic - they’re personal. They shape how I show up, how I listen, how I hold space.

I don’t want to be a psychologist who hides behind theory or distance. I want to be the kind who meets people where they are - with empathy, curiosity, and presence. Because the real work doesn’t happen in textbooks. It happens in the quiet, messy spaces between people. And that’s where I feel most called to be.

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