You are what you believe you are

    

      "You are stupid." 

        I visited my relative's home when I came back to Vietnam last summer. They have two kids: one is 12, and the younger is 8. Both are adorable. 

        That was a normal afternoon. When the elder sister was doing her homework and was unsure about her answer, she came to ask for help, and the adult said: "You are stupid! Why can't you understand this simple formula?".  I asked them why they say that to a kid, and they said: "It's just a joke! Kids know nothing!" But kids do know. Kids understand. Kids get hurt, too.

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        My lovely niece. She then looked down at her notebook, gripping her pencil tightly. I could see the frustration in her eyes—not just with the math problem but with herself. It wasn’t just one comment. It was years of hearing the same words, sinking into her mind, shaping the way she saw herself.

        I wanted to tell her that she wasn’t stupid. That she was trying, that learning takes time, and that mistakes don’t define her. But how many times would I have to say it to undo everything she had already heard?

        Later that evening, I watched her playing with her younger sister. They laughed together, but I noticed something—whenever the younger one spoke, the elder would hesitate before responding, as if measuring her words carefully, afraid to say the wrong thing. I wondered if she had started believing that she was less capable, less worthy of speaking up.

        Words don’t just disappear. They stay, echoing in the back of your mind. And when you hear them enough, you start repeating them to yourself.

        To me, I was luckier: I was never compared or labeled by others in my childhood. For all of my studies, from elementary to high school, I was always the top student in the class (there is only one high school on my island). However, things changed when I went to college. I moved to the biggest city in southern Vietnam, Ho Chi Minh City (or Saigon in the past), in 2014. In my class, there were so many good students from other places in the country. And it was the first time I felt comparing myself to others. 

        At first, I didn’t think much of it. I told myself that everyone had different strengths and that I just needed to work harder. But as time passed, I started noticing things—how effortlessly some classmates grasped complex concepts, how confidently they spoke in class, how naturally they seemed to belong. Meanwhile, I struggled. The subjects were harder, the competition was tougher, and for the first time, being "the top student" wasn’t something I could rely on.

        I remember studying in my dormitory one evening, staring at my notes but unable to focus. A thought crept into my mind: Maybe I’m not as smart as I thought. Maybe I was only good because my world was small. It was a painful realization. I had never been compared to others before, but now I was doing it to myself. 

        I started to behave like an average student, which is how I perceived myself. I gave up concentrating in class, convinced that I was not smart enough to grasp the concepts. I often abandoned challenging homework problems, thinking those were only meant for the top students. As a result, my grades during the first two years of college suffered greatly. That was then good evidence for me to confirm my thought that I was not good enough. My belief made me behave that way, and the result of those behaviors reinforced that belief. 

        I could be in the endless loop of being at the bottom of the class until one day, in my first semester of my third year. There was a day of exam on the subject Electrodynamics. I handed my answer sheet and left the exam room when I had completed sixty percent of the questions. I decided not to involve too much thinking and left the other forty percent blank because I thought sixty percent was enough for an average student. When I left the room and opened my phone, I got a call from my best friend. He asked about my day and how I did in my exam. I answered him what I had done. And he got mad at me. He asked: "Who is the person who said she wanted to be a researcher? Do you think a researcher can let herself perform that way?" His words woke me up.

        Now, when I look back, I realize that comparison is a double-edged sword. When others compare you, their words can shape the way you see yourself, sometimes trapping you in labels you never chose. Like my little niece who was constantly told she was stupid, it’s easy to start believing what you hear. But even when no one else is saying it, sometimes we do it to ourselves. In college, I wasn’t labeled by others—I labeled myself. I measured my worth against those around me and let self-doubt take over.

        Comparison itself isn’t the issue; rather, it’s how we use it. If we view comparison as a way to judge ourselves, it becomes a burden, reinforcing the notion that we are either "enough" or "not enough." However, if we approach it as a tool for growth—learning, adapting, and improving—it transforms into something entirely different.

        Perhaps the key is not to avoid comparison and labeling but to change how we respond to them. Instead of allowing comparisons to define us, we can let them guide us. Rather than believing we are what others say we are, we can choose for ourselves who we want to be.

        Unsticking a label isn’t easy. It takes time, self-awareness, and a willingness to rewrite the story you tell yourself. But if others can define you, then so can you. And if I’ve learned anything, it’s this: I get to decide who I am. No one else.                        

        Be brave.