“I love struggling, actually,” says Olympic gold medalist figure skater Alysa Liu, “it makes me feel alive”.
The 20-year-old has become something of a global phenomenon, not only because of her success in Milan, but also as a result of this attitude of unprecedented self-confidence. The American had previously quit the sport at age 16 to spend more time with family and friends, but made a triumphant return in 2024 on her own terms, saying the sport gave her “something to be strong for”. You don’t need to understand the mechanics of a triple Axel to be able to see the pure, unfiltered joy on Liu’s face during her victorious Olympic free skate.
I am fascinated by mindsets like Liu’s, ones that differ so starkly from my own. As a chronic depressive, the thought of waking up with such apparent unwavering self-belief is so alien that I’m half-convinced I’d be capable of some kind of acrobatic ice jump if I were able to similarly trust myself through the hard days.
And it strikes me that I’m not the only one in Oxford who could learn a thing or two from Liu.
At an earlier and more cynical time in my life, I saw Oxford as a city divided between us outsiders, crippled by imposter syndrome and self-hatred, and the wannabe leaders of society, brimming with confidence instilled in them since birth for the low price of £20,000 a term. Now, though, I can see that almost no one at Oxford goes about their day without overthinking, or an inner monologue telling them they’re not doing enough.
A recent work by Oxford graduate Simon Van Teutem examines a “Bermuda Triangle of talent” wherein an unprecedented number of graduates are choosing careers in corporate law, management consulting, and investment banking. Is it possible that this phenomenon is a symptom of a crisis of self-esteem at Oxford? Two minutes on LinkedIn is enough to convince you that everyone you know has a millionaire-making graduate scheme lined up, and that you’d better quickly follow suit. I’m delighted to announce that you need to hurry up with your life. You’re falling behind. Why haven’t you been networking? Why didn’t you start casing for McKinsey the day you received your UCAS acceptance?
So it is against this backdrop, as rejection emails numbering in the triple-digits burn a hole in my inbox, that I consider Alysa Liu. Bored of harbouring a heavy fatigue from ceaselessly comparing myself to others, I am optimistic, or maybe delusional enough to hope that self-love really is learnable. What a relief it would be not to rely on a bottle of wine, or 50mg of sertraline to drown out the fear of being judged and found lacking.
In fact, self-belief is a more fundamental component of emotional balance than you might expect. In her 2018 memoir I want to die but I want to eat Tteokbokki, the late Korean author Baek Sehee locates low self-esteem at the crux of her dissatisfaction with her life and personal relationships. To constantly second-guess what impression you’re making on others is to begin to resent those around you for the most likely unfounded suspicions you attribute to them. It almost guarantees that you will never have a moment of peace. And Oxford can’t afford to be negligent about moments of peace.
Here then, is as good a reason as any to investigate the possibility of reinvention with a self-fashioned self-confidence. I had noticed that certain creators online referred to Liu in relation to the term “radical self-love”, so I took this as my starting point. I scrolled through video after video featuring Pinterest pictures of women doing yoga and dancing in the rain, and found an entire genre of girlboss self-help books. But I quickly developed doubts about the internet’s current favourite psychological buzzwords. After all, Marcus Aurelius didn’t have to navigate this modern rabbit-hole of ‘aesthetic’ philosophy and profiteering self-help programs when he set out to know himself.
For example, I found out that the term “radical self-love” itself is attributed to the writer and public speaker Gala Darling, whose 2016 work of the same name promises to offer “the ultimate guide to living the life you’ve only dreamed about”, and to help you “manifest a life bursting with magic, miracles, bliss, and adventure” for the price of £10.29. Did you roll your eyes with me?
Although it feels cynical to side against self-love, I simply worry that this feels a little too close to the commercial exploitation of insecurity. If we purchase Darling’s book in order to love ourselves, who’s to say we shouldn’t purchase a rhinoplasty, or that new designer jumper that everyone seems to have but you? That’s not to say that I am against the movement as a whole, but at this point, I’m proceeding with caution.
In a similar vein to the question of commercialised self-love, I turn to another no less pressing issue: is self-love a mindset that you can simply decide to inhabit one day? Can you try on optimism like a new jacket and leave your old insecurities on the fitting room floor with other temporary delusions like belief in the tooth fairy? Thinking that such a radically good feeling will last forever is what I recognise as a manic episode. I’m pessimistic about the possibility of turning your life around simply because you decide it’s fashionable to love yourself.
On the other hand, I consider that Albert Camus’ freedom has, as its point of entry, an abrupt recognition of the absurd conditions of life. “We must imagine Sisyphus happy” because, having discerned that there was no power to prevent it, Sisyphus is free to conclude that “all is well”. In this way, might it not be possible to navigate Oxford with an awareness of the absurdity of the university and the social exigencies of its student populace?
Radical self-love feels artificially radical to me. I don’t want to have to pay £10.29 to find out that I’m not as messed up as I think I am. I don’t want to put my faith in a TikTok edit to inspire a shift in my outlook.
But maybe there’s something profound at its core. Maybe it is still possible to start loving yourself and your life just by choosing to start swimming up to the surface. To trace the shape of the firm bedrock of insecurity and push up from it simply because you see that it is absurd. To trust that there’s no concrete obstacle between us and a self-belief that doesn’t flinch at the possibility of failure. The kind that helped Alysa Liu come back better than ever.
“Winning isn’t all that and neither is losing,” says Liu: “It’s just something that happens, it’s the outcome. But what matters is the input and the journey.” The key word is input; a concerted effort, not a video you like and forget about. For many of us, self-belief doesn’t come naturally and isn’t going to manifest in us by osmosis. You have to practise. Not a triple Axel, but choosing self-belief. Because despite the girlboss idealism of radical self-love, Oxford needs a little more Alysa Liu.
