Submitting my proposal
Writing my PhD proposal felt like walking a tightrope between hope and doubt. Every sentence seemed to carry impossible weight. Would this convince them that my ideas were worth nurturing, that I belonged in a space I’d once thought was closed to people like me?
Survivors often live with a deep undercurrent of doubt. Years of being dismissed, disbelieved, or diminished by others can take root in the psyche. Even long after the abuse ends, its echoes remain, a quiet inner voice asking, Who do you think you are? As I wrote my proposal, that voice was loud. I kept expecting to be told that I wasn’t clever enough, academic enough, or the right kind of woman to do this work.
I think some of that doubt began at school. I hardly attended after the age of fourteen, and I left with no qualifications. Teachers called me lazy, said I was growing up too fast, or that I lacked focus. Not once did anyone ask if I was okay. No one saw the signs of what I was carrying.
Except for one. He was fondly known as Bill, a quiet, kind teacher who told me I could write well. It was a small thing, but it stayed with me. Perhaps he saw something I couldn’t yet see in myself.
As I sat there decades later, trying to draft my PhD proposal, I thought of him, and of the girl I was then: troubled, lonely, vulnerable to groomers and abusers. I thought I would feel smug if I ever achieved academic success, but I don’t. I only feel sadness for her. She deserved safety, and patience, and care.
When I finally finished, I felt both exhausted and exposed. The days that followed were filled with nervous waiting, except I didn’t have to wait long. The email came through almost straight away: they wanted to interview me. I remember staring at the screen, not quite believing it, and then laughing out loud from pure relief.
The interview itself was surprisingly kind. We talked about survivors, ethics, and why this research matters. When they offered me a place, I felt something shift inside me, a quiet rewriting of my own story.
For someone who was told again and again that she wouldn’t amount to anything, that moment meant more than any qualification could. It wasn’t about proving people wrong, it was about proving to myself that it’s never too late to grow in new soil. Even if it had taken me six decades to get here.
Sometimes the most radical thing a survivor can do is to keep learning, even when she was never meant to.