I’ve always been an overachiever. Especially in academics. But let’s not start there - it’s a long tangent.
When I was in school, I was everywhere. The school arts festival? That was my stage. You could participate in four stage items and four off-stage ones. I took all eight and won first place in every single one. Malayalam versification, English versification, Malayalam story writing, English story writing - first in each. And then on stage: Malayalam recitation, English recitation, Malayalam or English extempore, and a mono act - again, first place. I was the Sargaprathibha and Kalathilakam. Looking back, it almost feels absurd. But that’s who I was - relentless, restless, constantly chasing the next validation.
Academics, now.
You’re always told to study well, right? Parents, teachers, everyone says the same thing - study well, get good marks, make us proud. You’re promised little things for doing so: a new pen, a bicycle, some kind of reward. I was one of those kids who did exactly that. I studied well. I never questioned why. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was compliance. Maybe it was a habit. I’ve often thought about this - it takes courage not to study, not to follow what everyone expects. And I never had that courage.
And yes, I was privileged. Being able to study well, to have access to what I did, to be supported - it’s a privilege.
In my 10th grade, it was a neck-to-neck race between three of us for the first rank. And when the results came, I topped the batch - 96.6%, ICSE. My parents were ecstatic. I still remember their faces, the way my dad’s voice cracked with excitement when he found out. My class teacher, who also happened to be my cousin, told him I was the topper, and suddenly there were calls, sweets, visitors, and celebrations. And then we found out I was also the district topper. The joy doubled. That was one of those moments that are so bright that they almost hurt in retrospect.
Then came the 12th.
In 11th grade, I was chosen to be a scribe for a student with mental disabilities. It was an unspoken thing - the scribe studies and helps the student score well. And so I studied. So much that I scored 100%. Everyone applauded me, teachers patted my back, and relatives called. “You’ll get 100 in 12th, too,” they said.
I didn’t. I lost four marks. Four marks. 99.96%. You’d think it’s a number, a trifle, but no. For everyone around me, it was a disappointment. My teachers, my parent - they were proud, of course, but that tiny gap became the talking point. And to me, it felt like failure.
Then CLAT happened. I prepared for it alongside my boards. I joined one of those big coaching institutes that promise you the world. I did well in mock tests, but on the exam day, I messed up my OMR sheet. The nightmare of every coaching student. My rank slipped to 980. I got into NALSAR through OBC reservation, but that number - 980 - haunted me. So close to 1000. It felt like a scar. It wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t good enough.
I joined NALSAR anyway - the second-best law university (or the third? NIRF rankings it is!) in India, as everyone loves to remind you. And that’s where my sense of self started crumbling. The crowd there was… something else. The way they spoke, the kind of conversations they had, the kind of confidence they carried - it terrified me. I felt small, inadequate, like an impostor pretending to belong. The inferiority complex grew like a shadow that never left.
When my first-semester results came, I was above average. But “above average” was not something I knew how to be. I was used to being the best. That’s when my mental health started collapsing. Slowly, quietly. I began missing deadlines, presentations, and classes. I couldn’t keep up. And the thing about being an overachiever is - you don’t know who you are when you stop achieving. You don’t know how to exist outside that performance.
Then I failed. Three papers.
When those exams were first held, I couldn’t appear - I was mentally unwell. I planned to take them in the repeat cycle, but they were scheduled right after my coming out and the chaos that followed at home. I wasn’t in any shape to study. I failed again. And the next year, when those papers came around, I was suicidal. I didn’t think I’d live to see the results, so I wrote poems on my answer sheets instead of answers. Literally, poems. I failed again.
Three papers. It doesn’t sound like much, but to me, it was everything. It was proof that I had fallen from the pedestal I’d built for myself.
And now, after ECT, my memory is compromised. I can’t write papers. I can’t memorize long sections or case laws. I can’t sustain the kind of focus I once prided myself on. So I’m leaving NALSAR. Writing that down feels both liberating and devastating. Like I’m quitting, but also freeing myself. But the thought lingers - I’m quitting because I failed. That’s hard to swallow.
Right now, I’m preparing for the Kerala Law Entrance Exam. Coaching again. Competing for a single-digit rank. The overachiever in me refuses to die. It’s alive and loud and restless.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be kind to myself. If I’ll ever let myself just be - without needing to prove anything, without measuring my worth through ranks and percentages and titles. I doubt it, honestly. Because the overachiever is not just a habit; it’s a survival strategy. It’s how I’ve kept myself from falling apart.
But maybe one day I’ll learn to stop chasing perfection. Maybe one day I’ll stop mistaking achievement for existence. Maybe one day, “good enough” will actually feel good enough.
Until then, I’ll keep running, keep trying, keep studying, keep writing. That’s what I do. That’s who I am. An overachiever - still trying to learn how to be human.
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