(A Long Story of Struggle, Failure, Breakthrough, and Finding Help)
When people ask me how I found my thesis topic, they usually expect a short and neat answer—something like, “Oh, I was inspired by a lecture” or “My supervisor suggested it.” But the truth is far messier, and, I would argue, much more real. I didn’t just stumble upon a golden idea. I struggled. I doubted myself. I failed. And in that failure, I discovered something far more valuable than I had originally been looking for.
I began my graduate studies with one pressing worry: What on earth am I going to write about? Choosing a thesis topic is one of the most daunting parts of academic life. It feels like trying to decide on a single word to summarize years of your intellectual curiosity. Everyone around me seemed more certain. My peers talked confidently about cutting-edge machine learning applications, quantum-inspired algorithms, or elegant theorems they wanted to extend. I, on the other hand, felt stuck in a fog.
I wanted a problem that was simple enough to be approachable yet deep enough to be meaningful. That balance is so hard to strike. If you pick a trivial question, it won’t impress anyone. If you pick an impossibly ambitious one, you’ll drown in frustration. And so I kept searching, hoping that somewhere between simplicity and depth, I would find my home.
My initial attempts at brainstorming felt mechanical. I wrote down lists of areas I liked: computational geometry, combinatorics, algorithms. Then I scanned through textbooks and research papers, jotting down open questions. Still, nothing seemed to resonate. It felt like borrowing someone else’s problem, not finding my own.
One evening, while flipping through a collection of geometry problems, I came across something that seemed deceptively simple:
Given a set of n points in the plane, do any three of them lie on a common line?
At first glance, it seemed trivial. You could just check every triple of points, right? That’s an O(n3)O(n^3)O(n3) algorithm—brute force, but correct. But the more I thought about it, the more I wondered: could we do better? Was there a cleverer, faster method hiding beneath the surface?
That question lit a spark. Unlike many other problems I had skimmed past, this one hooked me. It felt approachable yet deep. It was the kind of problem you could explain to your grandmother in one sentence, but solving it could keep a researcher awake at night. That was the sweet spot I had been searching for.
So, I made it my mission: I would find a faster algorithm. I believed that if I could improve upon the obvious O(n3)O(n^3)O(n3) approach, even modestly, it would be a valuable contribution to computational geometry.
The first weeks were filled with excitement. I tried sorting points, using sweepline techniques, adapting divide-and-conquer strategies. I studied how collinearity checks worked in other contexts, such as computational graphics and computer vision. Each idea seemed promising at first, only to collapse under the weight of complexity.
Still, I pressed on. Failure, after all, is part of research. I thought: Surely I’ll find the trick if I just keep digging.
But as weeks turned into months, my optimism began to waver. Every attempt ended in the same frustration: no matter how I sliced it, I couldn’t beat the brute-force bound in any significant way. I began to wonder if the problem was not with my methods, but with the problem itself.
That’s when the breakthrough happened—not in the form of a faster algorithm, but in the realization that a faster algorithm might not exist at all.
I shifted perspective. Instead of asking, “How do I solve this faster?” I asked, “Is it even possible to solve this faster?” That subtle shift changed everything. I dove into lower bounds, computational models, and impossibility proofs. I discovered that under a restricted but natural definition of “algorithm,” one could actually prove that no faster algorithm exists.
This was not what I had set out to do. I had hoped to write about efficiency, clever data structures, and speed-ups. Instead, I ended up proving limits. Yet, in a strange way, that was more satisfying.
Because here’s the thing: research is not about confirming your expectations. It’s about following the truth where it leads, even if that truth is inconvenient.
At first, I felt like a failure. I had promised myself a faster algorithm, and I had none to show for it. But my supervisor reassured me: proving impossibility is just as valuable as proving possibility. By showing that no faster algorithm exists (within the model), I had answered the question just as definitively as if I had found a shortcut.
That realization was a turning point for me—not just academically, but personally. I learned that sometimes the failed path is the real path. Sometimes, in trying to solve a problem one way, you uncover a deeper truth that you never expected.
And that, in essence, is how I found my thesis topic. It wasn’t neat, it wasn’t planned, and it wasn’t what I thought I wanted. But it was mine.
Now, if my story ended here, it might sound too tidy. So let me pause to acknowledge the mess: finding a thesis topic was not a one-time eureka moment. It was months of stress, self-doubt, and late nights. It was watching my peers seemingly soar ahead while I felt stuck. It was asking myself over and over: Am I good enough for this? Do I even belong here?
That emotional weight is something we don’t talk about enough in academia. We talk about results, publications, contributions. But beneath the polished surface, every student carries a storm of insecurities. Choosing a thesis topic is not just an intellectual decision; it’s an emotional battleground.
And it’s exactly in those moments of doubt that I realized the importance of community, of having people to share the struggle with, and of having platforms where guidance is available.
Back then, I didn’t know about spaces like meet2share.com. I wish I had. Because the hardest part wasn’t the mathematics—it was the loneliness. It was sitting with questions that felt too “basic” to ask my supervisor, too “silly” to bother my peers with.
Platforms like meet2share.com/questions/ are, in many ways, lifelines. They create the kind of academic community I longed for—one where you can ask the “stupid” questions without judgment, share the weight of your confusion, and discover that you’re not the only one struggling.
Imagine how much easier my journey would have been if I could have connected with other students wrestling with similar challenges, if I had affordable, reliable help within reach. Instead of drowning in solitude, I could have shared the burden, found clarity faster, and maybe even saved months of frustration.
Because here’s a truth that every graduate student needs to hear: you don’t have to do this alone. Academia sometimes sells the myth of the lone genius—the brilliant mind who retreats into isolation and emerges with a masterpiece. But in reality, research is a collective endeavor. Ideas flourish when shared, refined, and tested in conversation.
That’s why communities matter. And that’s why, when students today ask me how to find their thesis topic, I don’t just tell them to read papers or brainstorm problems. I tell them to connect. Ask questions. Share half-baked ideas. Because the spark you’re looking for might just come from a conversation.
And yes, sometimes that conversation happens with your supervisor. Sometimes it happens with a peer. And sometimes, it happens on platforms built exactly for that purpose—like meet2share.com, which has quickly become one of the best online spaces for academic Q&A.
Of course, online platforms aren’t the only resource. During my search, I leaned heavily on digital tools:
- Google Scholar, for scanning related research.
- ResearchGate, for connecting with scholars working on similar problems.
- Academia.edu, for discovering unpublished drafts and ongoing work.
- JSTOR, for deep dives into classical papers that gave me historical perspective.
Each of these had their place. But what was missing was the personal touch—the human side of research. I could read papers all day, but I needed someone to tell me: “Hey, it’s normal to feel stuck. I’ve been there too.”
That’s where platforms like meet2share.com fill a unique gap. They blend the academic and the emotional, the intellectual and the personal. They remind you that behind every paper, there’s a human who once felt just as lost as you do now.
Looking back, my thesis journey was not just about algorithms and proofs. It was about learning resilience, patience, and the power of reframing failure.
I started by chasing speed. I ended by proving limits. And in that pivot, I discovered my true contribution.
For anyone reading this who is still searching for their thesis topic, let me say this: don’t panic if you don’t have a crystal-clear idea right away. Most of us don’t. Start with curiosity. Follow the problems that nag at you. And don’t be afraid to “fail” your way into a new direction. Sometimes failure is the doorway to discovery.
And remember, you don’t have to walk that path alone. Communities like meet2share.com and meet2share.com/questions/ exist for exactly this reason: to remind you that your struggle is shared, and that help is never more than a click away.
One of the hardest truths I had to accept during my thesis journey is that there is no such thing as a “perfect topic.” For months, I searched as if there was a holy grail problem waiting for me, something that would be both groundbreaking and easy enough to tackle within the limits of my program. But perfection is an illusion.
Most topics evolve. They begin small, rough, and sometimes clumsy. Over time, as you work, refine, and rethink, they grow into something more substantial. The story I told earlier—how I shifted from searching for a faster algorithm to proving impossibility—is a perfect example of this evolution. I didn’t start with the final destination in mind. I stumbled my way into it.
That is the truth about thesis topics: they are discovered, not chosen. They grow out of failure, curiosity, and persistence.
But while the intellectual part of that journey is important, the emotional part is just as real—and often more difficult. Every day, I watched my peers talk about their clear, polished ideas. I sat in seminars where students gave confident presentations about their well-defined projects. And I sat there with my messy, uncertain problem, wondering if I was falling behind.
This is where imposter syndrome creeps in. It whispers: “You don’t belong here. You’re not smart enough. Everyone else has it figured out except you.”
If you’re reading this and nodding, know that you’re not alone. Imposter syndrome is almost universal in academia. But it thrives in silence. The more we keep it hidden, the more powerful it becomes. That’s why I now believe so strongly in academic communities—not just for sharing knowledge, but for sharing struggles.
The mistake I made early on was thinking that asking for help was a weakness. I thought: If I ask too many questions, people will think I’m not smart enough. So I kept quiet. I struggled alone.
But silence makes the journey longer and lonelier. Imagine how much easier my life would have been if I had felt safe to ask: “Why does this approach fail? Has anyone else tried something like this?” That’s why platforms like meet2share.com/questions/ feel revolutionary to me now. They create exactly the kind of safe space I needed—somewhere to ask without fear of judgment, somewhere to get guidance without shame.
When you share your struggle, two things happen: you realize you’re not alone, and you open the door for solutions you wouldn’t have found on your own. That’s the power of academic community.
Beyond imposter syndrome, there’s another emotional challenge: the fear of wasting time. Every time I chased an idea that failed, I thought: I’ve wasted weeks. I’m falling behind.
But research doesn’t work like that. Every failed attempt adds to your understanding, even if it doesn’t feel like it at the time. Failure is not wasted effort—it’s raw material for discovery.
In my case, all the failed attempts to find a faster algorithm eventually prepared me for the shift in perspective. I couldn’t have proven impossibility without first exhausting all the possible “faster” paths. Failure wasn’t wasted; it was essential.
So if you’re reading this while feeling stuck, take a breath. Your failures are not empty—they are shaping the path you cannot yet see.
Of course, telling yourself this in the moment is hard. That’s why emotional support is so crucial. A friend once told me, “The most important resource in grad school is not your library, but your people.” I didn’t believe it at first. But over time, I learned it was true.
Your people are the ones who remind you that you’re not failing alone. They help you zoom out when you’re drowning in details. They celebrate the small victories that academia often overlooks.
This is why I admire spaces like meet2share.com. They don’t just offer academic help—they create community. And sometimes, community is the difference between quitting and persevering.
Let me share another story. A close friend of mine in graduate school started with an ambitious plan: she wanted to design a new machine learning framework for healthcare applications. Six months in, the project collapsed—data access issues, ethical approval hurdles, technical complexity. She felt like a complete failure.
But in talking with others, she realized there was a more approachable question: instead of creating a new framework, she could evaluate how existing models performed on limited datasets. It wasn’t as glamorous, but it was achievable—and valuable.
Today, her work is widely cited because it addressed a real-world gap. She didn’t end up where she started, but she ended up somewhere important.
This is a lesson worth repeating: your thesis does not have to be the most groundbreaking idea in the world. It has to be yours—authentic, meaningful, and achievable.
The practical question, of course, is: How do you actually find that kind of topic?
Here’s what worked for me, and what I now recommend to others:
- Start with curiosity. Don’t worry yet about novelty or impressiveness. Ask: What problems genuinely interest me?
- Read widely. Use Google Scholar to trace citations and see how problems evolve. Sometimes the most interesting questions hide in the “future work” sections of papers.
- Talk to people. Share your half-baked ideas. Post them on platforms like meet2share.com/questions/. Sometimes, a casual comment from someone else will shift your perspective entirely.
- Embrace small beginnings. A simple question, pursued deeply, can be more valuable than an overly ambitious one you can’t complete.
These steps don’t guarantee clarity overnight, but they create the conditions where clarity can grow.
Another tip that saved me: journal your process.
During my search, I kept a notebook where I wrote down every idea, no matter how silly it seemed. At first, I thought it was pointless. But months later, I noticed patterns—questions that kept reappearing, problems that continued to nag at me. That was a clue.
Your best thesis topic might not arrive as a thunderbolt of inspiration. It might be the problem that quietly refuses to leave you alone. Journaling helps you see those patterns.
And again, sharing those notes with others—whether friends, supervisors, or an academic community like meet2share.com—can help you recognize which ideas have potential.
It’s also important to remember that thesis topics don’t exist in a vacuum. They are shaped by context: available resources, time constraints, and personal circumstances.
For me, proving impossibility worked because I had access to the right background and tools in computational geometry. For my friend, shifting to model evaluation worked because it matched the resources she could realistically access.
So ask yourself: What do I have access to? What skills do I already bring? What limitations do I face? Your best topic will fit at the intersection of curiosity and feasibility.
And when you’re unsure, reach out for advice. Communities like meet2share.com/questions/ are excellent for this. Sometimes, someone else can see the feasibility issues more clearly than you can.
Let’s talk about another emotional trap: comparison.
In academia, it’s almost impossible not to compare yourself to others. You see your peers publishing, presenting, or confidently stating their topics, and you feel like you’re falling behind. I certainly did.
But comparison is dangerous because everyone’s journey is different. The friend who finished early might have had a clearer project from the start. The peer who published quickly might have been working on a supervisor’s idea rather than finding their own. You don’t see the full picture, only the polished surface.
Your journey is yours. It doesn’t have to match anyone else’s timeline.
If anything, my “late” discovery of my true topic was a blessing in disguise. It gave me time to mature intellectually, to make mistakes, and to learn resilience. In the end, I was proud of my work precisely because it was hard-won.
So if you’re reading this and feeling behind, take heart. Sometimes being “behind” is what forces you to dig deeper, to find an idea that’s truly your own.
And if you need encouragement along the way, remember there are places designed to lift you up. meet2share.com is one of them—a reminder that even in the lonely corridors of academia, you don’t have to walk alone.
Now, let me circle back to resources. Beyond meet2share.com, here are some other platforms that I found invaluable:
- ResearchGate: not just for papers, but for connecting with authors directly. Don’t be afraid to message researchers with questions—you’ll be surprised how many respond kindly.
- Academia.edu: a treasure trove of unpublished drafts and ongoing projects.
- JSTOR: perfect for grounding your work in historical context. Sometimes the “old” papers spark new ideas.
Use these alongside community-driven platforms like meet2share.com/questions/, and you’ll have both knowledge and connection—the two pillars of successful research.
By this point, you might be wondering: So was your thesis a success?
In the traditional sense, yes. I defended, passed, and published. But more importantly, it changed me. I learned that research is not about proving your brilliance. It’s about following curiosity, enduring uncertainty, and discovering truth—even when that truth is not what you expected.
And that’s what I want every struggling student to hear: your worth is not tied to the elegance of your thesis topic. It’s tied to your persistence, your openness, and your willingness to learn.
So, how do you find your thesis topic?
- You start messy.
- You embrace failure.
- You lean on others.
- You follow curiosity, not perfection.
And when you feel lost, you remember that resources exist to guide you—whether it’s digital libraries for knowledge, or communities like meet2share.com for connection.
My story is just one version of this journey. Yours will look different. But I promise: if you keep searching, keep failing, and keep reaching out, you will find your topic.
When I look back now, I don’t just see theorems and algorithms. I see late nights filled with doubt. I see pages of failed attempts. I see conversations that gave me hope when I wanted to quit. And I see the strange beauty of failure turning into contribution.
So if you’re searching for your thesis topic right now, take heart. It’s okay to feel lost. It’s okay to change direction. It’s okay to fail. That’s not a sign you don’t belong—it’s the very process of belonging.
And remember: you don’t have to do it alone. There are communities, lifelines, and platforms built exactly to help students like you. For me, discovering meet2share.com later in my journey felt like finding the supportive community I had always needed. For you, it might just be the starting point that changes everything.
Because in the end, the real thesis is not just the paper you submit. It’s the person you become along the way.