Feedback
It feels like crunch time, truly. When I received the feedback from my program director in the UK, it landed with the weight of a deep, bracing gulp—one that I wasn’t entirely prepared to take. For a moment, I couldn’t even bear to open the email. The mere thought of its contents was enough to keep me at bay. When I finally summoned the courage, I skimmed through it quickly, almost nervously, before copying the text into a separate document so I could distill it into manageable parts. Slowly, point by point, I began to understand what was being asked of me and, perhaps more importantly, what I needed to do.
For the first time on this journey, I felt truly insecure. Ideas I once thought were solid now felt flimsy, almost hollow. But I don’t blame the feedback—it was blameless. In fact, it was generous. The time my director took to review my proposal, to carefully observe its strengths and weaknesses, was a gift. His suggestions on how to sharpen my arguments, to make them more compelling, detailed, and specific, were exactly what I needed. And yet, the process felt overwhelming. That’s the thing about feedback—it’s inherently challenging, not because it’s wrong, but because it holds a mirror up to your work, and by extension, to yourself. To take it in requires a certain headspace, a preparedness. You can’t simply dive in blindly. There’s a ritual to it, a way of transitioning into a mindset fortified with enough self-assurance and grace to withstand the vulnerabilities it exposes.
Now, I find myself in the midst of translating that feedback into action—writing, revising, adding layers of detail where there were once only broad strokes. The timing feels almost poetic. The feedback arrived just as I’m preparing for my first academic conference as a presenter. Nervousness lingers, a steady undercurrent, but I remind myself: being accepted into the conference is itself a victory. I’ve already achieved something meaningful. Whatever comes next is an extension of that win. My job now is simply to give it my best.