My heart sank twenty thousand leagues under the sea as I stared at my first college English paper. That red letter– so bright and bold, yet small, encircled with a precise hand– bored itself through my eyelids and imprinted itself into my brain. Needless to say, it was not the A I’d been hoping for. I shoved it– face down– into the back of my binder. An overpowering sense of unhappiness flooded me and rendered me silent for the rest of the period.

In that hour and fifteen minutes of class time, I sent my entire life plan into a tailspin. No longer would I be an English major. Why should I? If I couldn’t adequately analyze Faulkner, how I could I possibly write for "Saturday Night Live?" I should just drop out, I told myself. I don’t belong at a school like this. I’m so out of my element. I should just leave, go home, sleep in my own bed, have my own bathroom again, feel unencumbered by the worries of having to read 50 pages a night and studying for midterms and writing essays and trying to maintain some form of a social life and also attempting to get somewhat conceivable amounts of sleep.

I’m a month into my freshman year, and I can’t let go of what I used to be.

The truth of the matter is that for so many years of my life, I was the best at what I loved. In high school, I’d go into English class with a nonchalant air and just a touch of impatience, as though it was a waste of my time to be around others who didn’t get the concepts quite as quickly as I did. Of course, in retrospect, this wasn’t a really wonderful attitude to have in the classroom (I’m so sorry, former classmates), but being above average at something is what makes me happy.

That moment was when I realized that I was no longer the best. I had always known this would happen; my parents, my high school teachers, and even the college faculty during orientation warned me that I wouldn’t be at the top of the class anymore. I would no longer be able to maneuver through school with the same relative ease that I once had. College is harder than high school and some people manage better than others. Some people are smarter than others. That’s just the way things work.

Knowing all of that is one thing, but accepting it is quite another. I tried to tell myself that I wouldn’t get straight A’s anymore, that it was okay if I had to change my learning style, that I’d probably have a difficult time adjusting. But there’s that ultra-competitive part of my brain which says differently; it’s tiny, but powerful, and insists that I need to be at the top of the game at all times in order to be truly successful. There are times when it takes over and makes me feel as though I’m not good enough. It’s hard to live with the notion that there will always be someone better than you at something you’ve always considered yourself to be the best at.

I’ve been pushed hard my entire life to not settle for second place by most of the people in my life – and myself. I’m my own worst enemy sometimes. Once I have something I want – in this case, finally reaching a high level of academic achievement – I can’t accept the possibility that it might not be mine someday. Many things come easily to me. Letting go is not one of them. It’s a sort of art form – there’s an immense amount of natural skill required to accept failure and move on. How does one learn from her mistakes without taking it personally?

Having had time to process the worst grade I’ve ever received on a paper, I know I may have exaggerated slightly – I probably don’t need to drop out (probably. It’s only the first month of school. It’s still a legitimate possibility). How do I let go of the misconception that I need to be the best? Well, accepting you have a problem is the first step in doing something about said problem.

A few days later, I found my paper; it was face down and crammed in the back pocket of my binder. I felt a rush of anger – I didn’t want to think about it anymore. Then I paused and flipped it over once more. The little red letter still burned when I looked at it, but with less intensity. I allowed myself a moment to actually look at my professor’s comments and see what happened. Finally, something in my brain clicked, and the tough love part of my brain finally overtook the pity party my perfectionist part had been throwing me for the entire day. You didn’t get a good grade, Mithra. Suck it up and deal with it. And, then, somehow, I put the paper back in my binder – front side up­ – and let it go.

“Suck it up and deal with it.” Poignant. Original. Maybe I will be an English major after all.