I still remember the exact moment I stepped into my first lecture at the University of Reading. Not the broad strokes – the timetable, the module code, or the reading list – but the feeling. The “first lecture feeling” is strangely physical. My hands were shaking, not from the walk but from the nerves I was trying to ignore. My backpack felt heavier than it should have. And then, as the lecture theatre filled, the comparisons began.
Around me were accents from every corner of the country and beyond, rolling across the room like a chorus I wasn’t sure I knew the lyrics to. Some students looked effortlessly put together. A few pulled out brand-new laptops, tapping away as if they’d done this all before. Everyone seemed so certain – like university was a familiar language they had grown up speaking, while I was still flipping through the dictionary.
I remember opening my notebook and trying to look calm, even though I felt like I was performing the role of a university student rather than actually being one. When the lecturer asked if anyone had questions about the module outline, I wanted to raise my hand. I really did. But the question I had sounded basic in my head – too basic. I imagined people turning around, eyebrows raised, thinking, How does she not already know that? So I stayed quiet, nodded along, and hoped nobody could tell I felt slightly out of place.
The moment that stayed with me didn’t actually happen in the lecture theatre at all. It came later, quietly, in the middle of the term. After working hard on the first two assignments, I received some unexpectedly high grades – higher than I’d dared to hope for after that nerve-wracking first lecture.
A line from my lecturer stayed with me, simple but unexpectedly encouraging:
“You will make a fine economist.”
It felt like someone from inside this new world was reaching out and telling me I had a place in it after all.
Because outside the lecture theatre, there is another version of me – the one that goes home and tries to explain what a “first-class essay” actually means. I remember calling home after I got a good grade on my first exam. I was excited, almost breathless, rehearsing how I would say it. When I finally told them, there was a pause and then: “That is good.” Not dismissive, just… distant. Like I was showing them a map of a place they’d never visited.
I tried to explain what the grade meant, how it compared to others, and why I was proud. But even as I broke it down, I could tell the significance didn’t quite land. And I didn’t blame them. My world now – lecture theatres, office hours, economic models – doesn’t fully translate into the one I grew up in. It’s not that my family isn’t proud. They are. They tell me all the time. But pride feels different when you’re not fluent in the world your child is stepping into.
Sometimes that gap makes me feel guilty. While I’m here writing essays and debating theories, my family is working long hours, carrying weights I don’t always see but always feel. There’s a quiet pressure that comes with being the one who “made it out,” whatever that means. A pressure to justify the sacrifices, to come back with something worth the distance. I find myself thinking about them during late nights – how they’re probably still awake too, but for reasons that don’t come with citations or deadlines.
Switching between these two worlds is an art I’m still learning. At university, my vocabulary stretches: “transitivity,” “macroeconomic indicators,” “game theory.” At home, I switch back without thinking. My tone softens; the slang returns; the academic polish dissolves. It’s not inauthentic – it’s instinctive. It’s the code-switching you learn long before you even know there’s a word for it.
And yet, what surprised me most this semester is how those two worlds occasionally touch.
Like when I was studying for an exam, stressed and dramatic about it, and my family laughed and told me, “You always overthink, but you always pass.” They didn’t understand the content, but they understood me.
Or when I sat in a tutorial surrounded by confident voices and realised that half the room was just as confused as I was – they just hid it better.
There’s a comfort in knowing that some experiences, no matter your background, are universal.
Now, when I walk into a lecture, the accents are familiar. The way people carry themselves no longer intimidates me. The laptops are just laptops. I still get nervous before asking questions, but I ask them anyway. And every time I understand something difficult or contribute something meaningful, I feel that moment again – the quiet line that someone took the time to write: You will make a fine economist.
Not because it’s a prophecy carved into stone, but because it was the first time someone inside this new world said I deserved to be here.
And if the “first lecture feeling” taught me anything, it’s that belonging doesn’t happen all at once. It happens in small moments – sometimes in a single sentence – that tell you you’re not just pretending anymore.
You’re becoming.