When I started grad school, I didn’t realize how quickly self-doubt could take root in a room full of writers. Everyone seemed so certain of their talent, so fluent in the language of ambition. I, on the other hand, was still figuring out what I even wanted my voice to sound like. Every workshop felt like an audition for something I wasn’t sure I wanted.

There was this quiet, unspoken current of competition: who got published, who was shortlisted for something, who got invited to read. No one said it aloud, but we all felt it. The irony was that the more I compared myself to others, the less I actually wrote. I’d leave class, sit at my desk, and stare at the blinking cursor, convincing myself that everyone else’s words were stronger, cleaner, more necessary.

What made it harder was how easily admiration could twist into insecurity. I genuinely loved reading my classmates' work, but every time I did, I caught myself wondering if I’d ever write something that effortless, that sure of itself. I’d thumb through literary journals late at night,........

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