◉ 017 | Am I a Fraud?

Year 1996.

I’d just finished primary school

and had no clue

what I wanted to do with my life.

How the fuck was I supposed

to figure that out at fourteen?

I told my mum

I was thinking about a school

for graphic and printing technologies.

She said, “You’re better than that.”

So I ended up

in a technical school for electronics—

a good place for future engineers.

Year 2000.

It felt natural to continue my education

at electrical engineering university.

And I genuinely believed I was a good fit.

I even moved to another city for it.

I prepared hard

for the university entry exam—

went to prep classes, studied for months.

I ranked 199th.

Out of thousands of applicants,

they accepted 700.

And the first 400

had tuition fully covered

by the government.

So for the next 9 years,

taxpayers funded my studies—

even though the program

was 4.5 years long.

Ok, 5 if you count the thesis.

Yep, 9 years.

I doubled it.

Not because I was dumb.

But because I had no interest in it.

—

Nikica was a coding prodigy.

He tried to help me outside regular classes.

We both lived in student dorms.

He always typed ( ) first,

then moved the cursor left

to fill in something like i > 1.

I could understand it—

he thought it was faster,

and it worked for him.

What I couldn’t understand

was the logic inside the brackets.

Coding logic broke my brain.

I failed that

Introduction to Programming exam twice.

Nikica did his best to help me—

but I couldn’t wrap my head around C++.

Eventually, he stopped tutoring me,

thinking, no hope for this fella.

But when the next exam came,

Nikica happened to be in the same room.

Before the test started,

I’d asked him to write a second,

weaker version for me

after completing his own.

He was reluctant,

as it was risky for both of us,

but I pushed him.

Another problem:

he was sitting five rows behind me.

The assistant called, “Time’s up,”

and started collecting the tests.

I stood up—quickly.

Turned my back to him.

Walked straight to Nikica’s desk,

blocking the assistant’s view.

Picked up the test Nikica scribbled for me,

and filled my name in.

The assistant looked at me like,

what the fuck are you doing?

“I’m just checking question seven,” I said.

Then I handed it in—stone-faced—

though my heart

was about to jump out of my chest.

I passed the written component,

and only God knows

how I passed the oral as well.

Maybe I actually learned something.

And then 41 more subjects

felt like that.

Most of them, anyway.

I graduated nine years later.

Couldn’t find an engineering job—

the 2008 economic crash had hit hard.

I took a marketing role at a TV network

as a research assistant.

Years later,

on the opposite side of the globe,

in Melbourne,

I eventually landed

what they called an engineering job.

I was soldering circuit boards,

making cables.

Like primary school crafts.

But with a soldering iron.

I stayed quiet.

Hands busy.

Better to do something physical

than pretend to understand the schematics

I refused to learn.

The final nail in my engineering coffin?

My boss saying, “Good afternoon”

when I arrived at work at 8:03 a.m.

No hello, no context. Just that.

A warning disguised as a joke.

A subtle, daily fuck-with-your-head move.

That day, I decided:

I’m done.

Applied to study photography.

Got accepted.

I used to wonder—

who’s more of a fraud?

Me, with the degree

I never really cared about?

Or Mike Ross,

from Suits,

with no degree at all—

but all the skills.

Maybe we’re all faking.

Just in different ways.