Being ridiculed for being different is something I know all too well.
I graduated from the School of Economics and recently started working as an accountant for a private firm. It seemed like my dreams had come true—a good job, stability, a chance to start anew in a bustling city. But from my very first days, I was overwhelmed by memories I had spent years trying to forget. It felt like I was thrown back to my student days, labeled as a “country bumpkin” and openly scorned.
I’ll never forget how the girls from my course looked at me—mockingly, with disdainful smirks, like I was not a person but some oddity stumbling into their glossy world. Unfashionable, without makeup, in a worn-out coat, carrying a backpack filled not with cosmetics but with homemade pastries from my grandmother. I wasn’t concerned with appearances—I just didn’t want to miss the train, board the wrong bus, or get lost on campus. My life had no room for lipstick—only fear and diligence.
I’m from a small village near Chipping Norton. Dad worked in a workshop, Mum was at the post office. I got in without tutors, connections, or money—just through sheer hard work, studying until my hands were numb from the cold. When I was accepted, I believed the worst was over. I was mistaken.
Nothing changed. The local girls still sneered as I trudged through the snow in my only pair of suede boots—unfashionable but warm. They walked past me as if I were invisible, especially when I was shivering at the bus stop, warming my hands with my breath. At first, they just ignored me, then they started intentionally inviting me for coffee—knowing I couldn’t afford it. It was a twisted amusement for them, watching me decline with a strained smile.
That’s when I met Sam. He was equally “out of place”—a slim, shy country lad from outside Ipswich. He knew what it was like to sit in the library with a piece of bread, waiting for the dormitory lights to come on. We bonded and became true friends, though we never dated. We still keep in touch. He moved closer to his parents, helping on the farm and working for the local council. I relocated to Reading to be close to my sister; she was left alone with a child, and I couldn’t leave her.
Years later, I spoke about these experiences out loud for the first time. The catalyst was an unexpected visit from one of those “glossy stars” from my university days. She came to my office for business, aloof, chin high, with manicured hands and an everlasting air of superiority. She didn’t recognize me straight away—or pretended not to. It was as if I once served her coffee. She brought in documents, all filled out incorrectly. I explained matter-of-factly that they were wrong, and such errors could jeopardize her, myself, and the entire organization. Rather than a polite response, she exploded, pointing fingers just as she did back at university.
That was when, for the first time in years, I looked her straight in the eye. Calmly, I said, “We don’t shout here. Take your papers and leave. Correct them and return.” She grabbed her documents silently and left. I felt no glee—just relief.
I could have taken revenge. I could have mocked her as she once mocked me. But I didn’t. Because I’m not like that. I’ve grown. I have dignity, which they once tried to crush. I endured despite all the ridicule, the cold, the hunger, the humiliation. I got in, graduated, got a job, I’m raising my niece, helping my family. I have real friends, a conscience, and an understanding that it’s not the place that defines a person, but the person that defines the place.
I know the value of kindness. I know the cost of cruelty. If I were to face that frightened girl with the backpack again today, I’d hug her and say, “You’ll make it. They won’t break you. You’ll become strong.”
And that’s what matters. To not let people like them break you. To not become like them. To hold on to your humanity. Despite everything.
