I failed.
For the first time in my nerdy, academically-driven life, I failed a class. I knew it was a hopeless situation even going into the final exam.
My first exam score was a 6/25 and that was after several hours of studying. I thought that I’d prepared well enough. Obviously, that was me being delusional. Her teaching style clashed horribly with my learning methods.
Nothing I did worked to improve the situation. I studied for days and barely slept the night before the second exam, and I still failed spectacularly.
The night before the third exam I sat at a computer desk in the library for almost seven hours. The only reason I went back to my dorm that night is because I started crying mid-review. I don’t mean the soft, sniffly crying. I’m talking about the sudden, overwhelming tide of emotion that reduces you to a sobbing wreck.
I failed that test too.
I didn’t even try to study for the final exam. This class crushed me. I spent the last month of the semester questioning everything. I wasn’t even going to show up for the final, but when I woke up that morning, something told me that I should.
So I went; armed with a pencil, two blue essay books, and an emotional detachment stemmed in depression and confusion.
We received our essay topic and for a long moment, I just sat there. Then I started writing. I told her how much I hated this class.
“Your class destroyed me. It ripped away my sense of self and completely annihilated my confidence. I defined myself as ‘the smart one’, or ‘the girl who was good at school’. Being in this class took that away from me. And when you aren’t sure how to define yourself as anything else, you’re left adrift and questioning.”
I confessed about my emotional breakdowns. I cried silently while writing the letter. I didn’t hold anything back. I mentioned how I lapsed into depression. I told her that she made me reevaluate myself in every aspect because I couldn’t simply be considered the perfect student anymore.
And then I wrote about how her class had taught me the most of all, and how I could never repay her for showing me that I’m more than a set of good grades.
“Your class taught me about life. I’ll never be a primatologist. I’ll never be the perfect student ever again. You taught me how to fail. It wasn’t a graceful process by any means, but your class allowed me the safest opportunity possible to encounter disappointment firsthand and to learn how to recover from that. I cannot thank you enough for being an obstacle along my path because without this, without you, I’d probably have crashed into it head on later in life and would’ve fallen apart completely.”
I ended my letter with best wishes for her. I was the first one done. I handed in my booklet and left. It felt like a burden removed from my shoulders. I failed the class, of course.
When my final abysmal grade went up on Blackboard, I was sure that was the end of it.
In late December, I got an email from her.
“Your letter moved me to tears. I had to fail you because of your performance in my class, but I watched you struggle and never admit defeat and I wanted to say how proud I am of you. As a teacher, you try to impart lifelong knowledge on your students and to know that you’ll carry something from my class forever makes my retirement even sweeter. I am glad that you learned about failure early on, but don’t ever doubt that you are an intelligent young woman. I want to thank you for your honest words and let you know that I am going to frame your letter and put it on my wall. This was my last semester teaching but if you ever need a letter of recommendation or a word of advice, don’t hesitate to contact me.
P.S – My roadblock class was Organic Chemistry. I failed it three times, but I still made it to where I wanted to be. Keep that in mind.”
Sometimes, failure means endless regret and sadness, but if you take the time to learn from it–it may prove to be extremely valuable in the end.
