I did not walk into MUJ feeling like I belonged. I walked in feeling loud, lost, and slightly fraudulent.
Let me begin with the part nobody ever includes in the glossy welcome speeches.
I did not arrive at Manipal University Jaipur feeling accomplished or secure or proud in the cinematic way people talk about college beginnings. I arrived feeling like I had somehow bypassed an invisible checkpoint. Like I had slipped through on a technicality. Like if someone looked at me for just a second too long, they would realise oh. You. You’re not supposed to be here like this.
I remember standing on campus and feeling untethered. Not lost in the “I don’t know where this building is” way, but in the quieter, heavier way. Everyone else seemed to be moving with intent. Groups formed quickly. Laughter carried easily. People spoke as if they already had context, history, inside jokes, plans. I felt like I had entered halfway through a movie and missed all the exposition.
I was loud, yes. I talked. I smiled. I performed fine. But inside, I kept thinking, why do I feel like I’m pretending at something everyone else knows how to do naturally? Why does it feel like everyone got a handbook and I got vibes?
And somewhere along the way, I gave up. I would be the last one to enter class and the first one too leave. I did not speak unless I was spoken to. I helped everyone at the expense of my peace and time, simply because I thought “it would make people like me” more.
If you are here right now, sitting somewhere on campus or scrolling through this between classes, wondering why you feel oddly out of sync while everyone else looks frighteningly settled, I need you to hear this clearly:
You are not broken.
You are not behind.
And you are not failing at college.
You are just new. And newness is deeply disorienting, no matter how confident people pretend it isn’t.
The version of MUJ you meet first is not the one you end up living in.
Early MUJ feels performative. It feels like everyone is auditioning for the role of “person who has it together.” People are louder than they actually are. Busier than they actually feel. Friend groups form quickly, loudly, and very publicly, which makes it seem like if you haven’t found your people immediately, you’ve missed the deadline forever.
But here’s what I learned slowly, and mostly in private: that version of campus is temporary.
Belonging here doesn’t arrive with a dramatic click. It does not descend during orientation week or magically settle in by the end of your first month. It builds itself in fragments so small you don’t recognise them as progress until much later. It shows up the first time you recognise a face instead of just an outfit. The first time someone saves you a seat without asking. The first time you realise you’ve stopped counting how many days you’ve been here.
For me, it arrived in moments I didn’t post. Quiet conversations. Sitting alone and not panicking about it. Realising I could exist on campus without constantly explaining myself. MUJ didn’t demand that I become smaller or quieter or more palatable. It waited. Patiently. For me to arrive as myself.
That arrival took time. And time feels cruel when you’re lonely.
Imposter syndrome is loud here because ambition is loud here.
MUJ attracts people who want things. Big things. Loud futures. Impressive trajectories. At the same time, MUJ also attracts people who are the polar opposite of… “ambitious”. The energy from both sides can be intoxicating, but it can also be terrifying if you’re still figuring yourself out.
I’ve sat in rooms where everyone sounded more certain than me. I’ve listened to conversations about plans, achievements, internships, leadership, and felt that familiar tightening in my chest. The thought that whispers, everyone else seems to know where they’re headed. Why don’t I?
Believe it or not, I’ve also sat with people who had no idea what they wanted to do tomorrow, forget the “5 year plan”. I’ve seen them discussing their parents’ money, next trip, upcoming parties, situationships, gossip, and been flabbergasted.
“I’ve tried fitting in here, I’ve tried fitting in there, and I am nowhere.”
And as much as I hate to admit it, being in third year, I still am nowhere. I do enjoy the occasional Friday night, spontaneous city trips, talking about if the trip will ever make it out of the group chat. But I also enjoy ranting with my friends, getting hot chocolate after feeling existential dread, and thinking that I can still make it out of college with an acceptable CGPA.
Maybe the key all along was finding my version of balance. I have questioned whether I was enough in spaces where confidence felt like a prerequisite. I have wondered whether my path was “valid” simply because it didn’t look like the dominant narrative around me. I have compared myself into exhaustion, into silence, into thinking I needed to be different to deserve my place.
Here is the uncomfortable truth I learned later: a lot of the confidence you see on campus is borrowed. Most people are trying on versions of themselves. Testing identities. Experimenting loudly. The ones who look settled are often just better at hiding the doubt.
Feeling unsure does not mean you don’t belong.
It means you’re paying attention.
And attention is not a weakness. It’s a form of care.
There is no single correct way to be a MUJ student, and realising that will save you years of unnecessary self-doubt.
You don’t need to be everywhere. You don’t need to join everything. You don’t need to be loud, extroverted, hyper-visible, or constantly “on.” You don’t need to turn yourself into a version that feels marketable or impressive just to justify your presence here.
Some people find home in clubs and committees. Some in academics. Some in leadership. Some in creativity. Some in friendships that start slowly and deepen quietly. Some in solitude. Some in just making it through the week.
All of it counts.
Your college experience does not need to resemble anyone else’s to be real or meaningful. MUJ is not a mould. It is a container. And it stretches to hold more than one kind of student, more than one pace, more than one story.
Including yours. Especially yours, even if it doesn’t look dramatic or Instagrammable yet.
I wish someone had told me this earlier: belonging often comes after doubt, not before it.
We talk about belonging like it’s a feeling you unlock once you’ve earned enough confidence points. But in my experience, it works the other way around. Belonging grows quietly while you’re busy doubting yourself. It shows up even when you don’t notice it happening.
One day, without warning, you will realise that the campus feels smaller. Familiar. You’ll know where to go without checking Google Maps. You’ll have opinions about places. You’ll have memories tied to benches, buildings, classrooms. You’ll look at someone new and recognise that lost look instantly, because you’ve worn it yourself.
And on that day, you might feel a strange tenderness for the version of you who arrived here unsure, observant, slightly overwhelmed, but brave enough to stay anyway.
That version of you belonged too.
So yes, you belong here. Even if you don’t feel it yet. Especially if you don’t feel it yet.
Belonging is not something you earn by being louder, better, or more confident. You don’t have to wait until you feel worthy to take up space. You don’t have to become someone else to justify your place at MUJ.
You are allowed to be unsure.
You are allowed to take time.
You are allowed to grow slowly, awkwardly, imperfectly.
And if you still don’t feel like you belong, here is the most honest part of this letter: you will always belong with Her Campus at MUJ. And if you ever need a corner to stand in, breathe, or quietly figure life out while someone else is also staring into the void and pretending they have answers, you will usually find Niamat Dhillon at HCMUJ there.
Not because you have everything figured out.
Not because you’re confident.
But because you’re here.
And that has always been enough.