You’re not falling short, you’re just the youngest
Sometimes the feeling of not being enough creeps in like fog through open windows.
Most college students are familiar with this thick weight that suddenly makes it hard to breathe. It’s the kind that sits in my chest after submitting a project or walking out of a meeting, when I start to realize that, despite doing well, it still doesn’t feel sufficient.
When I entered college, I didn’t have much to show for myself; no impressive list of achievements, no big experiences to brag about in interviews. I wasn’t the student who joined everything in high school or won leadership awards. I did what was needed and nothing more. It was only when I got to college that I realized how much that mattered.
It hit me during my first few interviews. Everyone seemed to have a story: a project they led, an organization they joined, or a cause they cared deeply about. It’s like they have figured themselves out along the way. I didn’t. I had to sit there and admit to myself that I didn’t really know what I was doing. All I had was a willingness to learn.
So I told myself that this time, I’d be different. I wanted to say yes to things that scared me. I wanted to be part of something, to do work that would make me proud, even if it meant stepping way outside my comfort zone.
I joined an organization. I started creating publication materials, and for a while, that felt good. I was finally gaining the “experience” I used to envy. But with every new task came a strange heaviness, as if something inside me kept whispering that I wasn’t enough.
I would stay up late staring at my designs, picking apart every small detail. I’d submit a pubmat and only realize what was wrong with it once it had been posted for everyone to see. The shade of pink was off. The alignment wasn’t perfect. The background doesn’t match others’ work.
It was like, despite all the eye strain and backache from three hours in front of my monitor, my work always seemed clumsy next to others.
Everyone around me seemed effortlessly creative. They’d come up with ideas so fast, while I was still on Canva, second-guessing every font. It made me wonder if I even belonged there.
Sometimes, in a different org, I’d take 15 minutes to ask one question in our group chat. I’d read my message again and again before sending, worried someone would think, “Shouldn’t she already know that?” I was terrified of looking incompetent, of confirming the fear that maybe I really didn’t deserve to be in there.
I didn’t want to be seen as small. But I already felt that way.
I realized that it’s these very humbling experiences that, piece by piece, shape us into something stronger.
It’s strange how that feeling seeps in slowly until it colors everything you do. Even the things I should’ve been proud of started to look dull beside someone else’s work. I began to shrink myself without even noticing.
Then one night, I paused long enough to see it differently. I wasn’t bad at what I was doing. I was just the youngest in the room.
When you’re the youngest, it’s easy to forget that you’re still learning. You look around and see people who’ve been doing this for years, who already know the shortcuts, the tricks, the right tones, and the right words. And you compare yourself, not realizing that you’re comparing your first step to their tenth.
I still have so many questions, and I still make mistakes more often than I’d like. But that’s okay. After all, what will we become if we don’t make mistakes? It’s okay to need guidance. It’s okay to not have everything figured out yet.
Sometimes I forget that the people I admire once felt the same way I do now. They, too, must have stayed up late wondering if they were good enough. They, too, must have hesitated before hitting “send.” The difference is that they kept going until they weren’t the youngest anymore.
That’s what I’m trying to do now.
I still have those lingering thoughts of being bothered by not knowing everything, but I’ve stopped beating myself up over it. I’ve learned to appreciate the fact that I’m still in the stage of discovering things for the first time.
And maybe that’s the best part about being the youngest in the room. To hope that soon, you get to grow in front of everyone. That you get to surprise them, and yourself, as you slowly figure it out.
It’s these very humbling experiences that, piece by piece, shape us into something stronger.
You get to be the person who starts unsure but learns to move with confidence over time. I’m writing this still uncertain, still not fully believing it’s my best. And maybe the fact that these words made it out of my head and onto the page is proof that I’ve already taken a small step forward.
It feels like you’re always reaching for the right words, the right rhythm, the right version of yourself. Maybe the uncertainty, the trying, the small beginnings are all part of something that’s still becoming.
After all, you are the youngest in the room.
