A recurrent reminder circles through the heads of the new students at Andover—that the school chose them. Since the day you received your acceptance, thoughts of how spending days at school would be went through your mind. Experiencing the fireside munches with burnt marshmallows and boundless laughter, the first chills of New England, and being surrounded by the most talented students from across the globe; that is what you signed up for after all. You were chosen, but so was a tri-varsity athlete, a world-qualifying debater, and the bubbly, sociable person who knows everyone on campus. It can be overwhelming at first, and maybe you’ll feel slightly inadequate upon hearing their nuanced hobbies and numerous accolades. However, once the first few weeks pass by, you’ll be able to understand that you can’t possibly expect to be in multivariable calculus, Fidelio, and a starter on Varsity squash all at once. Perhaps, as time goes on, you can develop your talents and call one of those subjects your niche. Yet, if this is the explanation for these thoughts of mine, what is that specialty that I have— the one that Andover supposedly chose me for?
Even among the limited pool of teenagers attending my small-town private school, I came to understand that I was quite ordinary. I am a musician, but not one who plays with an orchestra behind them. Somehow, I came to be a writer, but I couldn’t show you awards on a shelf in my room. I’m not terrible at math, I care for the environment, and I could spend hours watching explainer journalism videos, but none of these could solely define me on a resume. A niche, that area one excels in, is what I was looking for. Consequently, I couldn’t find a rationale for my being here. In a place full of students, ones who stood out for their unique capabilities, where is the room for kids with interests they aren’t unbeatable at? Why do I feel out of place when they chose me? Was I an average kid meant to round out a class of inventors and math olympians?
In my nearly one month at Andover, I’ve found that there is an expectation to counter shortcomings with your talents. If you let slip you’re in the lowest math level, it is usually followed up by a sentence mentioning what you were “recruited” for, be it sports, arts, or your unique fascination with philosophy. Rather than recounting your fumbles in the last JV3 soccer game, it would be best to follow up with a personal anecdote about your experience at a national competition last summer. In these moments, I fumble for a way to explain being in 200 and 300-level courses and to give a plausible explanation for why I won’t be able to max out a curriculum by the time I graduate.
I once shared a conversation with a friend at Andover about feeling painfully typical in a sea of gifted peers at school, but to my disappointment, she expressed that she felt everyone has something they’re good at. My dormmates gave a similar response, or rather, suggested what they thought my niche might be. To have a niche is treated as the cat or dog person question — there isn’t a category for someone who likes different or multiple animals. Such a question and the niche both framed answers in neat, square shapes. This little pocket I now desired to put myself in complicated the journey I had been dreaming of for so long. I was letting my Andover experience, one I worked hard to earn, be defined by my inability to fit one box entirely.
That is the ever-elusive niche. A niche, in my mind, was a talent you had that nobody else could best you in. It was quite likely to stem from the instrument you played since you were three or the joy you had when participating in your first science fair. Not having one made me feel like an outcast — not by alienation from others, but by excessively scrutinizing myself. In truth, there is no expectation to be irreplaceably good on the soccer team or to hide your shortcomings with your strengths.
To all the freshmen — or anyone who can’t fit themselves into a singular niche — know you can go beyond excelling in only one facet of your identity. Sometimes, we might feel pushed into a corner by the talent and passion constantly radiating from our peers, forcing us to wonder why we’re here. While Merriam-Webster defines a niche as “a situation or activity for which a person or thing is best suited,” it leaves out a crucial point: that a niche often caters to a single part of your identity. Consider your talents to be part of a whole, much like how we as humans function as a whole and not one brain, heart, or eye. With this in mind, you’ll likely find your niche at Andover, if you do not have one already. To those who have one, I offer the same advice: to recall that your niche doesn’t bar you from learning something else. Passions can be found, lost, rediscovered, or put on pause. Maybe a passion for the environment turns into starting protests in the city, or watching motion graphic animations leads to a YouTube channel. It doesn’t always have to be something you loved before Andover; it could be something you never thought you’d try. Perhaps you’ll find yourself a bit like me — neither a dog or cat person like the question asks, but a little bit of both.
