Meritocracy Lied to Us

At my school in South London, the mantra was "All Can Achieve." It was written on our record of achievement book, echoed in assemblies, drilled into us by teachers...like a promise.

I genuinely believed that teachers believed in it, and they wanted it to be true.

And it made sense, didn’t it?

For kids like me,

Working-class,

Children of immigrants

Well, achievement wasn’t just a goal. It was survival. 

It was the way out. The thing that would change everything. And so, you push. You keep your head down, you work, you graft, you achieve. Because that’s what you’re meant to do.

That’s the script.

And I did it. I climbed. I achieved.

I followed the steps laid out before me.

But no one ever tells you what happens after you make it. No one tells you about the weight that doesn’t lift. No one tells you that the doubt doesn’t disappear, that you don’t suddenly feel like you belong in the rooms you fought to get into. No one tells you that even after success, you still carry so much.

Last week, I was on the rooftop at work catching up with Tunji, tea in hand, looking out over the city we both grew up in. It was unseasonably mild for March, and we had an incredible backdrop of St Pauls. It was like a bloody movie.

We talked about a lot of things, but at some point, we just looked at each other and laughed because, honestly? We’ve done alright for a couple of working-class kids.

But if this were a movie, the screen would fade, the music would slow, and we’d rewind to 12 months earlier, when the conversation we had that changed everything for me.

Back then, I was gutted. Angry. Frustrated (there were ugly tears). One of those moments where someone had questioned my ability, not outright, not directly, but in that quiet, insidious way that makes you wonder if you’re imagining it.

Where someone had decided that I wasn’t quite at the level I should be.

And I was in the thick of it, listing out the ways I knew I had done the work.

And Tunji just looked at me and gently walked me through the conversation which basically went like this:

"You have to decide, do you want to keep climbing?

Or, after years of grafting, are you happy where you are?

And if you are, then why does it matter what anyone else thinks...but also where else do you want to go and do for you?"

And I swear, it was like someone had handed me a key I didn’t know existed.

Because I had never even considered that I had a choice.

How sad is that?

That after all these years, after all this work, I still hadn’t given myself permission to stop and ask what do I actually want for me?

And I know there are people who might read this and think, Of course, you have a choice. How did you not know? But that’s the thing. When you grow up in a world where achievement is framed as the way out, where success is about proving and surviving, not exploring and playing, you don’t think in terms of options.

You think in terms of next steps on the ladder.

And when you don’t know what the destination looks like, because no one around you has been there before ......you just keep going.

Because what else would you do?

That conversation with Tunji changed things. Not just because of what he said, but because of what it unlocked between us.

From that moment on, I felt seen really seen. Our conversations got freer, lighter. It wasn’t just about work anymore. It wasn’t about proving anything, or battling through frustration, or justifying ourselves.

We talked about life. About the world outside these spaces, we fought so hard to be in.

And now, when we grab catch up, I’m always a little grateful. Not just for him, but for what that moment gave me. For the way, it cracked something open.

And maybe that’s why, when I came across a speech by Professor Daniel Markovits, it landed so hard. Because he put into words something I had felt but never quite articulated.

Professor Daniel Markovits, was talking about meritocracy and the idea that success is purely about talent and hard work.

And he tore it apart.

Because the truth is, he is right meritocracy isn’t just flawed, it’s a lie.

The richest kids don’t just work hard. They are invested in.

Access to the best schools, the best tutors, the best connections. They start the race miles ahead, with safety nets and guidance and ease.

And yet, the system tells us that we’re all running the same race. That if you don’t succeed, it’s because you didn’t work hard enough.

And the worst part?

It doesn’t just exclude people, it makes them blame themselves for it.

And for those of us who do break through?

It doesn’t free us.

It steals ease.

That’s the part that hit me the hardest. Meritocracy doesn’t just make success harder. It makes it heavier.

Even when you’ve climbed, even when you’ve proved yourself, the weight is still there. You question yourself more. You get doubted more. You work harder just to be seen as equally capable. 

You make safer choices.

You hesitate.

You live with the awareness that, at any moment, someone could unsettle you, even if it is only for a moment (or sometimes longer).

It’s distracting. It shapes the way you move, the choices you make, the freedom you feel to take risks, to make mistakes, to try, to fail, to explore.

So when Ritchie asked me, Who are you outside of work?  of course it stopped me in my tracks.

Because I didn’t know.

Because I had never given myself the space to even explore that question. Because I had been so focused on getting here that I hadn’t thought about what here was meant to feel like.

And maybe that’s the thing. Maybe the exhaustion comes not just from the work itself, but from the fact that I’ve been running so long, I never realised I could stop.

That’s what Tunji gave me.

Not advice.

Not an answer.

Just permission.

A key to a door I didn’t even know was there.

And maybe that’s the hardest part of all of this, the realisation that no one told us we had choices. That for so long, achievement was the goal, not freedom.

But I don’t want to live like that anymore.

So, I’m starting small. Writing things down. Reading. Having conversations. Watching the way other people tell their stories.

Trying to make space for something that isn’t about proving, but about being.

And I don’t know exactly where it leads.

But I do know this—I don’t want to spend my life carrying this extra burden while other people run freely.

And maybe, just maybe, putting them down is the real work now.