I didn't know I could be more than a survivor.
Liana
I almost didn't go.
I told myself I was just walking past the building.
I told myself I just wanted to see what her door looked like.
But I had my notes in my backpack.
And I knew what time her office hours were.
Tuesday. 2:00 p.m.
I stood outside Room B-104 for five minutes before knocking.
The door was open. Just a crack.
I could hear soft typing, the occasional click of a pen.
I took a breath I didn't feel.
Then knocked.
"Come in."
Dr. Bailey looked up from her laptop.
She wasn't smiling—but she never really did.
Her face was always calm. Sharp around the eyes. Serious, but not cold.
"Chen," she said. "I wasn't sure you'd come."
I stepped inside.
Closed the door behind me.
Sat on the edge of the chair in front of her desk.
She didn't rush me.
Didn't speak right away.
Just waited.
And somehow, that was worse than being questioned.
"I don't really know what I'm doing here," I admitted.
"Sure you do," she said. "You're here because you have questions. Or maybe doubts. Or maybe just a need to be seen."
I stared at the edge of the desk. "I'm not… like the others."
"In what way?"
"They seem normal."
Dr. Bailey tilted her head slightly. "You don't?"
"No," I said. "I don't know how to study. I don't know how to talk in class. I get tired just from sitting there."
I paused.
Then added, softer, "And I don't think I belong in college."
She folded her hands. "Why not?"
I didn't answer.
Because the real answer was something I didn't want to say out loud.
Because I was broken.
Because I was a charity case.
Because I was just a girl someone had rescued, patched up, and placed in a world I never really earned.
But then she said—
"Let me ask you something. When you walk into the classroom, what's the first thing you notice?"
I blinked. "What do you mean?"
"What do you scan for?"
"…People. Where they sit. If they're loud. If they're blocking the exit."
She nodded. "Do you do that in every room?"
"Yes."
"Do you know how unusual that is for most students?"
I looked at her.
She didn't sound judgmental. Just curious.
"You're hyper-aware. You pick up on tone, space, tension. You listen more than you speak. That's observational skill. That's perception. That's psychology."
"But that's not… academic."
She leaned back in her chair.
"It's human. And if there's one thing psychology teaches us, it's that being human is messy, inconsistent, and often rooted in things we don't say out loud."
Her words settled over me like a warm blanket I didn't know I needed.
"You think you're not good enough," she said. "But I've had students with perfect grades and zero self-awareness. I'd take someone like you in a heartbeat."
I stared at her. "Why?"
"Because you survived something. And now you're choosing to build something after that. That's not nothing."
My throat tightened.
I looked down at my hands.
"I don't want to be just a survivor anymore," I whispered.
She didn't flinch.
"You aren't."
I didn't cry.
But something shifted.
Like the word survivor had finally started to peel off me.
Dr. Bailey pushed a small notepad across the desk.
"Start with this," she said. "Every day after class, write one thing you noticed. Not about the textbook. About people. What they say. What they don't."
I nodded.
"I can do that."
She smiled—small, but real.
"I know."
I left the office with the notepad clutched in my hand.
The hallway felt a little brighter.
Not loud. Not easier.
But clearer.
Maybe I wasn't just making it through college.
Maybe I was starting to take up space.
And maybe—for the first time in a long time—
That didn't scare me.