3 minute read

Stand and Deliver

… Please welcome to the stage... Abigail Sanderson! She floats into view before resting her arms casually on the podium. Her dark hair is pulled back in a smooth ponytail so perfect and yet so effortless I’m compelled to stare at the way it frames her eyes, her high cheekbones, her lips, ever-smiling. You would think that living 18 years with model girl from the cover of ‘Science Magazine’ would make me immune to all of this. She smiles at every beaming face in the place before beginning her speech, the speech I’d heard a thousand times through our bedroom wall. I marvel at her drive, her motivation, her diligence, all the tools that have landed her on this stage, in this moment.

I could never finish a PhD. Unlike her, I lack the tools. Unlike her, I am wracked with self-doubt. Unlike her, I’m not even sure if I belong here. I swim in this sea of sharks, and dolphins, and rays, a lone fish fighting for survival, struggling to get enough oxygen through my gills, the pressure unrelenting. Angelfish like her, they swim near the surface, and people come from far and wide to catch the tiniest glimpse of her. Nothing stops these creatures from doing their job and doing it well. They hunt, they feed, they mate, they survive. They make it look easy. I know it isn’t easy. Is it normal to feel like I’ll never reach the surface to join them?

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To join her?

I try my utmost to ignore the singular tear sliding down my cheek, because I don’t really know why it’s there. Is it sisterly pride I’m feeling? Has greeneyed Lady Envy taken over as she often does? Or is it just springtime, and there’s too much pollen floating its way through the gaping auditorium windows. In any case, this feeling is too much, and I turn in my seat to find my dad, at the back of the crowded room, a grin on his face and a proud glint in his eye.

He’s floating too. Sanderson! I stand there, my hands slipping on the sleek wood of the podium stand. One stray strand of hair is making my neck itch and I’m struggling to focus on anything else. Is it possible to fake eye contact with an audience? Can I appear approachable, intelligent, professional, outgoing, whilst at the same time avoiding every single pair of eyes in the sea that lies before me?

Staring, judging, waiting…

I’ve worked hard for this; I know I have. Four long years of hanging about the lab until the early hours of the morning, living on caffeine and protein bars, reading, and writing, and reading, and writing. And now, I’m here. Dr Sanderson. Centre stage. I should be feeling as though I’m taking in my first view at the summit of a mountain, my first gulp of cool alpine air. Fresh and crisp, it caresses my cheeks, tickles my nose, and cools the sweat pooling at the small of my back. It welcomes me into its embrace like an old friend.

Except there’s no air in this room. It’s stifling.

Breathe, just breathe…

My eyes land on my sister. She’s staring at me with a distant look in her eyes, her heel tap, tap, tapping soundlessly upon the auditorium floor. I can never work out what’s going on in that head of hers. I spot her Converse under her seat, smothered in Sharpie cartoons. SpongeBob, Doctor Who, various Disney characters. She’s allowed her little artsy quirks, they add to her appeal. I turn to see my mother, hand clasped and lips pursed, seated upright in the second row. This overwhelming feeling of anxiety, it gushes from my stomach to my heart and then my head. Giddiness consumes me. My whole being screams hide me, swallow me up, anywhere but here.

But suddenly, clarity. Ambition has landed me on this stage, and crikey, I’m not going to let the spotlight get the better of me now. One last hurdle, one final leap before I move onto my next mountainous peak, more treacherous and more rewarding than this one.

So I stand tall. And I lick my lips. And I begin.

“Greetings, esteemed guests... ”

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