Being the Only One in the Room More Often Than Not
I had just started university and walked into one of my first mathematics lectures. The lecturer mentioned there were about 120 of us in the room, a mix of students studying pure mathematics, mathematics and physics, mathematics and statistics, and mathematics and data analytics, which was my course. We all shared the same lectures, sitting together in a large lecture hall.
As I stood there waiting for the lecture to begin, I scanned the room.
There were a lot of white faces.
There were four Black people.
And one mixed-race student.
Out of the four Black students, two were women and two were men.
That was the moment it properly landed for me: Oh. I’m going to be one of the only ones here.
At the time, I didn’t have language for it. It wasn’t fear exactly — more like sudden awareness. A quiet mental note being made.
It became even more pronounced in certain modules. One of mine was Software Engineering. When I walked into that lecture theatre, I realised I was the only Black woman in the room. Not one of a few. Not one of several. Just one.
That was mind-blowing to me.
And then it kept happening.
It followed me beyond university lectures.
Joining gliding clubs, I was the only Black person there.
Entering technical spaces often the same.
Walking into professional environments again and again.
At some point, it stopped feeling like a coincidence and started feeling like a pattern.
Being “the only one” does something subtle to you. It sharpens your awareness. You become more observant of tone, of body language, of how much space you take up. You’re more careful with your words. You prepare more than everyone else, just in case you’re seen as representative rather than individual.
You learn to code-switch without consciously deciding to.
You learn when to speak and when to hold back.
You learn how to belong without fully blending in.
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There’s an emotional weight that comes with that. Not always heavy, but persistent. A quiet hum in the background reminding you that you are visible, whether you want to be or not.
But there’s also strength that grows there.
You become resilient in ways that aren’t always obvious. You learn how to walk into unfamiliar rooms and still take your seat. You develop confidence not because you’re comfortable, but because you’ve had to be.
Still, there were moments that made me question myself.
One of my internships came through 10,000 Black Interns, a programme specifically designed to connect Black students with organisations committed to improving representation. I got through the process and secured the internship and I was genuinely grateful for the opportunity.
But alongside that gratitude came an uncomfortable question I didn’t know how to silence:
Was I hired because I’m Black? Or because they truly believed in my ability?
That question didn’t come from nowhere. Before that, I had applied for countless internships and faced rejection after rejection. So when an opportunity finally came through a scheme explicitly focused on Black candidates, it stirred something complicated inside me.
I wanted the role.
I deserved the role.
But I also wanted to know that my skills stood on their own.
That tension between access and validation is something many of us carry quietly.
Over time, I’ve learned that these questions don’t mean I’m undeserving. They mean the system hasn’t always been designed to make belonging feel straightforward. Programmes that widen access don’t erase ability; they often reveal talent that might otherwise be overlooked.
And being the only one in the room doesn’t mean you don’t belong there.
It means you arrived anyway.
I still walk into rooms where I am the only Black woman. Sometimes I notice immediately. Sometimes I don’t until later. But now, instead of shrinking, I remind myself: my presence here is not accidental.
Visibility can be heavy.
But it can also be powerful.
And every time someone like me walks into a space we weren’t expected to occupy, the room quietly changes, even if no one says it out loud.
