Tears were in my eyes as a walked out of my chemistry classroom. I kept my head down and made a beeline to my dorm, averting any possible human interaction. I had just failed my first test in college, and it felt like my entire world was ending. I didn’t have a mirror handy, but I know for certain I was bright red as if my failure was stamped across my forehead. Instead of a scarlet A, it was a big fat scarlet F for the world to see.
Failing a test had been a completely foreign concept, perhaps even a myth, to me before my first semester in college. I felt like I’d sooner encounter Bigfoot than a run-in with a poor test score. Growing up, I loved school. I was a nerd, tried and true, and I loved every second of my geekiness. My parents did too, and they made sure that the bar set for my success was always at an all time high. Getting A’s was like a high to me, I relished in academic success. It was my personal source of happiness. When all else went wrong, I still had my grades and that was enough. Little did I know how detrimental basing my ideal of happiness on a number on a paper would be. Soon, my drive for success in the classroom manifested itself into something ugly. I not only wanted the good grades, I thrived off of them. If I scored a 90%, I’d think about all of the things I could have done for the 100%. If I didn’t know an answer on a test, I’d mentally beat myself up for hours, thinking that I was less of a person because I didn’t “know it all.” Before I knew it, it was my negative thoughts toward myself that spurred me to need A’s, not the genuine love of learning. I believed that my grades determined who I was.
I thought if I ever failed, I would certainly be six feet under. And when that day finally came that I did fail, it really felt like I died; and for a short time a part of me did. The glare of my “scarlet F” blinded me completely. I lost all of my confidence and stayed tucked away in my dorm, studying ad nauseum (seriously, it made me sick). I went on a hiatus, from everything I loved and even from myself.
Finally, like a saving grace from above, my best friend called me to ask if I’d like to go to volunteer my favorite animal sanctuary; a place that I would never miss the chance of visiting. Still being caught up in my image of failure, I fought with the idea of whether I should go or stay in hiding. In the midst of racking my brain over a choice that should be easy, I became sick of my tear-stained pillow all because of a grade and I became sick of hating myself over a mere number. My self worth didn’t come from the classroom, it came from my love of animals, like the ones at the sanctuary. It came from the love my friends and family share. It came from the service I love to do and the hobbies outside of school that make me happy. My self-worth came from my determination to pick myself back up and keep going after being knocked down. While getting stellar grades is an achievement I still strive for, I know realize that they do not define me or my worth. By the end of the semester, I fixed my chemistry grade. More importantly, I fixed my perception of myself. I realized that while success is never final, failure is definitely not fatal. Now, my determination to do my best is how I define who I am as a student, not the number on a sheet of paper nor any letter.
