From star-studded athletes to budding entrepreneurs to accomplished scholars, Harvard is brimming with nearly unlimited talent, but I’ve found that my amazing peers are also often full of self-deprecation and insecurity.

Recently, a friend recounted a social experiment she had performed. After a Harvard Student Agencies event, she was left with a box of Insomnia cookies. Instead of simply handing them out to the people studying in her dining hall, she formulated an idea: She would give people cookies on the condition that they answered her question, “What do you love the most about yourself?”

Some students could not give a straight answer. Balking, they would belittle themselves: Answers were murmured along the lines of “I don’t know, I haven’t done anything that great,” or, “I can’t think of anything, I just want a cookie.”

My friend was not surprised, and neither was I. At Harvard, people have invariably impressive achievements, but very few of them are proud to be who they are. As The Incredibles’ Syndrome famously prophesied, “When everyone’s super, no one is.” One never feels that the nagging “I-don’t-deserve-to-be-here” insecurity is ever fully dispelled because of the tremendousness of their peers. And such insecurity manifests itself in a vicious cycle of self-justificatory scapegoating: Athletes, minorities, and non-coastal students constantly hear the narrative that they are not as deserving an admit as others, and even the legacy student, the paragon of privilege, is mercilessly cut down in this zero-sum “belonging” game. But paradoxically, students spend so much energy convincing others of their worth that they stop believing their own words in the process.

Even though students are fixated with their external accomplishments at the expense of their own ego, this is not to say that students here are all cutthroat. Go to any dining hall past 10 p.m. on a weeknight, and you will hear a warm din of conversation as students huddle together talking through problem sets, sharing stacks of cookies from Brain Break. Collaboration is part of the culture here, but that collaboration too often is belied by competition; helping a peer with their homework is often perceived as a small intellectual victory, lorded over the peer through subtle patronizing and mocking gossip with other friends. Working together is common, but Harvard kids do not always play nice.

Many friendships I have observed are structured around this strange mix of support and competition. Many people I know care deeply about one another, carrying boxes for one another during move-in or staying up sleepless nights to listen to a friend distressed by a break-up. But these friendships also too often hide conceits; an incredulous look when a friend forgets how to integrate an equation or a condescending joke when a friend bungles the name of the latest Trump advisor to be fired often reflect a smug superiority. The high expectations of Harvard have made even intimate friendships crucibles of one-upmanship, that, at best, cause a culture of insecurity, and at worse, drive many to self-loathing and depression.

And, as my experimenting friend pointed out, these pernicious attitudes are quite contagious. One insecure person can cause those around them to start to doubt themselves too. “He is worried about his chances of getting into medical school—should I be worried too?” “She is only sleeping six hours a night—am I not working hard enough?” “They are comping three clubs—why am I only involved in one?” As is the case with mumps, Harvard has historical problems with infectious breakouts of self-doubt.

Luckily for us, students can combat the school’s anxiety-inducing culture in a straightforward manner. Simply, students have to start loving themselves. To my undergraduate audience, it helps to remember that each of you was accepted into this college because of your awe-inspiring abilities and character, and yes, that each of you deserves a spot here. There is nothing more you need to prove to anyone, regardless of the snide look the “section kid” gave you when you mispronounced “Habermas.” You do not need to participate in any extracurriculars to prove anything, or ever sleep less than eight hours. You do not need to singlehandedly vanquish that problem set that your friends asked you if you had finished. You do not need a prestigious job or a fancy fellowship. Some of my closest friends neither do extracurriculars, excel on their problem sets, sacrifice sleep for work, nor accrue LinkedIn-type accomplishments, yet, as with everyone else here, I am still astounded by their brilliance everyday.

While easier said than done, this initial recognition of deserving to be here is a good first step to propagating the self-confidence needed to reform our overly-competitive culture. And, if loving yourself isn’t working out for you, try to find other people that are loving themselves. You might find their confidence contagious.

Changing Harvard’s culture is not a hopeless goal. For every student mired in insecurity, there is another that has accepted themselves with brave confidence. For example, when my friend asked one person what they love about themselves, they replied, “Not letting Harvard get to me.” It is this attitude of proud defiance that can transform a culture and a school.

Reed T. Shafer-Ray ’18 is a Social Studies concentrator in Quincy House. Their column appears on alternate Thursdays.