I Thought I Wasn't Smart — Actually, I Just Think Differently

There was a time when I truly believed I wasn’t smart enough—not enough to join in the intellectual conversations among my academician friends. I listened, but I didn’t share my thoughts. What began as a passing doubt quietly settled in, lurking in my mind whenever we spoke. It began to poison me—not loudly, but in a quiet, aching way. Everyone around me seemed to speak in ideas I didn’t know how to form. I couldn’t see my way of thinking reflected in theirs. While they connected things to theories and big concepts, I connected them to feelings and meaning. That doesn’t make my thoughts lesser—but inside, I felt there was no common ground between us. And without realising it, I kept admiring them while silently blaming myself for not being like them.

I struggled for months to keep my thoughts in check. I’ve struggled since the very beginning of my postgraduate journey because, in my mind, I should be able to think better than I did during my undergraduate years. The expectations are higher now, and I felt I had to meet them. I am no longer a step behind—I’m no longer in a space where everyone is unique in their own way. I’m now standing among people who seem to be steps ahead of me. They think faster, speak clearer, and seem to understand more. And what do I have? Just feelings and meaning?

Silently, I judged myself. I began to despise the ‘lazy’ version of me. While others browsed thick theory books, oozing big-brain energy, I found myself reading fanfiction and comics—stories that made me feel better, that helped me understand people through simple words and pictures. I wasn’t radiating intellect—I was holding onto gentleness.

And slowly, a question crept in: Is there space for this kind of soft and gentle energy in academia? It might help me in my field—Sociology and Anthropology—but will it ever be enough?

At the end of the day, I would sit in my room, embrace the darkness, and reflect. But not in a positive, growth-filled way—rather, in the kind of reflection that beats you down from the inside. I would mentally scold myself, wondering why I wasn’t enough. Then I’d remind myself: this isn’t the time to mope around like I’m the only one who feels this way—even though, in those moments, I felt utterly alone. Truly alone. Lonely.

Slowly, I began to pick myself up. I started listening to upbeat songs—the kind that makes your heart swell with warmth. I began going out again, buying flowers, making bouquets, and writing notes. I thought to myself, If I can’t heal me, maybe I can heal others.

So I started giving out my handmade bouquets with heartfelt notes—to friends, to people I knew. I began reconnecting with art—the one part of me that still felt like me during that time. Quietly, through the act of healing others, I started to heal myself.

The way people looked—stunned, surprised—when they received a bouquet without any reason or celebration, it meant something. I loved it. I loved watching their faces shift from shock to appreciation, to joy. I slowly began to heal.

Then one day, when I told a friend, “It’s nothing,” after giving them one of my bouquets, they paused and said,

“It’s valuable—more than anything. The thought behind it matters more than anything.”

It took me back to years ago, when I handed out chocolates and little notes to my friends during a hectic week. One of them hugged me tightly and whispered, “Thank you for saving me.” That was the most beautiful thing I had ever received.

In those moments, I was reminded that maybe my way of understanding and helping people isn’t through big concepts, theories, or academic ideas—but through small, thoughtful gestures. Through kindness. Through gentleness.

And that’s okay. Being soft and gentle… is okay.

After that, I found myself once again in my now dim room—reflecting. Really reflecting.

What is intelligence, anyway?

What is this "intelligence" people keep parading?

What does it even mean?

Slowly, I began to realise that intelligence comes in many forms—and academic intelligence is just one of them. The kind of intelligence my academician circle has is only one among many others; emotional intelligence, reflective thinking, creative expression and more. So much more.

And I realised—I am using one of them. Just because they all think in the same format doesn’t mean I need to follow it. I might be a different puzzle piece in their picture, but that doesn’t mean I don’t belong. It just means I’m part of a different scene—one just as important, just as needed.

My kind of intelligence has value. It brings meaning, emotion, and gentleness.

And it matters.

I kept connecting the dots. I began to speak my insecurities out loud—even though they had always crept silently through my thoughts. I started to admit them to one of my academic friends. I opened up to another friend I hold dearly in my heart. I began to ask for their thoughts and perspectives.

In doing so, I learned to listen more deeply—to read between the lines without overthinking, and to feel my way through the meanings. I still sometimes talk over others out of excitement, but I’ve begun picking up on the behaviour of my academician friends; I now pause, apologise, and ask permission to continue. I’m learning to read not just the words, but the spaces in between, without burdening myself for not doing it perfectly.

And through all of this, I’ve come to believe that my way of thinking is a slow wisdom, a quiet intelligence. It doesn’t need to fit the mould society defines. It may be less flashy, but it is thoughtful, present, and deeply human.

This is my kind of intelligence—and I’ve come to see that it is enough.

More than enough.

Today, despite everything—and even when I relapse sometimes—I still believe that my point of view is important in my field. My way of thinking is crucial. What matters most is how I use it. I'm still learning. I'm still practising self-acceptance. And I’m constantly reminding myself that I am enough.

One quote I’ve pinned to my board, which I’d love to share here, says:

“You don’t have to sound like them to be as smart as them.”

This quote is powerful to me. It grounds me. It reminds me that I don’t have to be like anyone else to be worthy. Just because I see someone as smart doesn’t mean I need to mirror them to be seen the same way.

I am smart—in my own way.

I don’t need to be like them to belong.

I don’t know if anyone else out there shares these thoughts or feelings—those moments of constantly doubting ourselves, comparing ourselves as if there’s no tomorrow, even though the sun will still rise, whether we’re cheering for ourselves or tearing ourselves down.

So why keep despising ourselves when we can learn to appreciate who we are?

If we can be kind to others, why not be kind to ourselves first?

Yes, the world can feel like a vicious place—designed for the loudest voices and the brightest minds—but even they need gentle voices and thoughtful hearts to keep going. It’s hard not to see life as a competition, especially when that’s what others parade.

But even in that race, we can choose to run with self-respect, without underestimating ourselves or others.

I hope we all remember to look at our patch of green grass, not just the grass on the other side. I hope we dance, reflect, and rest in our fields with joy.

My thoughts and hopes are with all of you.