Getting Rejected after a Clinical Psych PhD Interview - Here’s What I Learned.

Earlier this year, I attended my first and only PhD interview weekend.

I had applied to work with a specific lab, and the interview weekend included conversations with that PI, their lab members, and another adjacent lab doing similar work. On paper, it all made sense. I had prepared for the formal interviews, read the papers, thought through my research fit, and had my answers ready.

And honestly, the formal interviews were not the hardest part.

One interview went pretty well. The other was harder to read. I was asked why I had left my previous doctoral program in the UK, and I gave the most honest and professional answer I could: timing, visa constraints, and the loss of my primary supervisor. It was not some dramatic story. It was just one of those complicated academic/life situations where the fit and logistics no longer worked.

What caught me off guard was not the interview itself. It was the social piece.

There was a dinner as part of the weekend, and I completely underestimated how much that dinner was still part of the evaluation. I thought it would be more casual — a chance to talk to current students, faculty, and other applicants in a slightly less intense setting.

Instead, it felt like a networking Olympics.

The best way I can describe it is an academic version of Love Island. You know when someone says, “Can I pull you for a chat?” That was basically the energy. Applicants were trying to get one-on-one time with faculty, jumping into conversations, hovering near PIs, and making sure they were remembered.

It was a little like The Hunger Games, but with name tags and pizza.

And I lost that game badly.

Not because I was rude. Not because I was uninterested. I just did not know how to compete socially in that kind of space. I am not the person who naturally dominates a group conversation or elbows my way into someone else’s chat, unless I’ve had a glass of wine or two. I like real conversations. I like depth. I like when interactions do not feel like strategy.

But that night, everything felt strategic.

Some applicants seemed to be one-upping each other. There was this unspoken competitiveness in the room, almost like everyone was trying to figure out who the “real” competition was. I know that probably comes with the territory. Clinical psychology PhD programs are insanely competitive, and everyone there has worked hard to get an interview.

Still, it gave me the ick.

At one point, another applicant suggested that I should talk to a faculty member’s spouse because that person was connected to the PI I had applied to work with. The spouse was also faculty at the university, but I had not applied to work with him and did not have a genuine research reason to seek him out.

I know academia runs on networks. I know people do this kind of thing all the time. But something about it felt off to me. It felt like I would be using someone socially to get closer to the person I actually wanted to work with. It also felt strange that the suggested “route” to a female PI was through her husband.

Maybe I was overthinking it. Maybe I was not. Either way, I chose not to do it.

Another applicant did take that approach and tried to connect her interests to his work, even though it did not seem aligned with the lab we were interviewing for. The lab was focused on child maltreatment and psychophysiology, and suddenly the conversation was about psychedelics. I remember sitting there thinking, “Wait… how did we get here?”

That moment stuck with me because it showed me how blurry the line can get between networking and performing.

I left the weekend feeling unsure. I thought I had done okay in the formal parts, but I kept replaying the social parts in my head. Did I talk enough? Did I seem engaged enough? Should I have been more assertive? Did I miss my chance because I was not extroverted enough? Did I seem quiet, or did I seem uninterested?

That is the part of PhD admissions that people do not always talk about.

Everyone tells you to know your research fit, read the faculty member’s work, prepare thoughtful questions, and explain your experience clearly. And yes, all of that matters. But there is another layer that is much harder to prepare for: how well you perform in a room.

How quickly you can insert yourself into conversations.

How comfortable you are being visibly impressive.

How well you can network without looking like you are networking.

For some people, that comes naturally. For others, especially those of us who are more introverted, neurodivergent, first-gen, culturally different, or just not interested in playing social chess, it can be exhausting.

That weekend also reminded me why I had been drawn to studying outside of the U.S. in the first place. American academic culture can feel deeply subjective sometimes. Of course, every system has its issues, but there is something about the U.S. PhD admissions process that can make everything feel personal, competitive, and a little theatrical.

And to be fair, I do not think the other applicants were bad people. I think everyone was scared. Everyone knew how few spots there were. Everyone was trying to survive the same impossible process.

But scarcity does strange things to people.

It can make smart, kind, thoughtful people feel like they have to compete for oxygen in the room.

In the end, I was rejected from that program.

And honestly? It hurt.

Not because I thought I was entitled to a spot. I knew the odds. I knew how competitive the process was. But when you spend so much time preparing, imagining yourself in a lab, thinking through your fit, and trying to show up as your best self, rejection still hurts.

For a while, I wondered if I had failed the social part. Maybe I should have played the game more. Maybe I should have been louder. Maybe I should have forced more conversations. Maybe I should have made myself more visible. Maybe, maybe, maybe a million maybes.

But with some distance, I do not think the lesson is that I needed to become someone else.

I think the lesson is that fit goes both ways.

A program is not just choosing you. You are also learning what kind of environment you would be entering. You are seeing how people interact, how applicants are treated, how competition shows up, and what kind of social performance is expected.

And sometimes rejection is not just a door closing. Sometimes it is information.

This fall, I will be starting a PsyD program, and I feel much more grounded in that path than I expected. For a long time, I thought a PhD was the only version of success that made sense for me because I care deeply about research. I still do. I still want to publish. I still want research to be part of my career.

But I also want strong clinical training. I want to become a psychologist. I want the work I do to connect directly to people, communities, and care.

That interview weekend helped me realize that I do not just want to be chosen by a prestigious program. I want to be in a place where I can actually grow.

I am still grateful for the experience. It taught me a lot about academia, about myself, and about the kind of spaces I do and do not want to fight to belong in.

Would I do some things differently now? Probably.

I would prepare for the informal events just as much as the formal interviews. I would remind myself that “casual” does not always mean casual. I would be more intentional about introducing myself and making sure faculty knew I was engaged.

But I still would not want to manipulate my way into being remembered.

I still would not want to perform a version of myself that feels fake.

And I still believe the right training environment should not require me to abandon myself at the door.

So yes, I was rejected.

And yes, I am still becoming a psychologist.

- The budding psychologist