信条

那是我 eighth grade year when, after receiving a hard math test with only ten points to earn a total of eighty, I was feeling so stressed and anxious about the exam that I couldn't even imagine getting any right. The first thing I noticed on the test was the difficult questions at the end. They required not just knowing some facts but also applying them in creative ways. My eyes darted over the problems, each one a puzzle waiting to be solved.

I started guessing on the easier questions and filling in my guessed answers with bold pencil, ensuring they wouldn't look like mistakes. But even then, I couldn't get close to the perfect score. The only thing that worried me was the ones at the end where I had no idea how to start or what formula to apply. They were so difficult that even after hours of staring blankly at them, my mind just hovered over a single question before it started to hurt.

But then, one evening as I sat in Mr. Thompson's physics class, I suddenly realized something. Instead of trying to focus on the problem, I turned and looked up from the test. The screen showed an image of my face, and that was it. It wasn't a bad grade. Not a failing score, not a failed attempt.

That night, I decided to take charge of my math exam. I started reviewing the problems systematically, writing down every step as if they were instructions for a robot who had to be precise. Each problem was broken into parts: fact identifying, analysis, and synthesis. I made sure to use all the concepts we learned in class and to check each step for accuracy.

The next morning, when Mr. Thompson announced the test scores, my heart raced as I saw where I stood relative to the rest of the class. The curve was tight, but I wasn't worried about getting a perfect score. Instead, I focused on learning how to handle the questions that were too hard.

That night, after brushing my teeth and showering, I went straight to the library to borrow some books on problem-solving techniques. I found an old algebra textbook and started reading it aloud like I was sharing news with someone new to math. The problems seemed manageable now. I even wrote down a list of key steps for each type of question to remind myself what to do next.

The next day, I began solving the hardest problem on the test first. It wasn't easy, but by writing down everything step by step, I was able to tackle it without falling into my old habits of making mistakes. I even made a mental note not to fall for common pitfalls because they could only hurt me more.

As I worked through each question, I felt a strange sense of progress. The problems that seemed impossible before were now starting to make sense when I broke them down into smaller pieces. It wasn't about being fast or quick; it was about taking the time to think and figure things out.

That evening, as I prepared for bed, I realized why Mr. Thompson had made us do this problem set in the first place. The process of solving these tough questions helped me build a stronger foundation of confidence, which carried over into all my other classes and even into my future career when it came to tackling new challenges.

From that day forward, I began applying the same self-compassion I had learned from Mr. Thompson. When I faced difficult tasks, I'd not only try their hardest but also remind myself of what progress would look like in the end. It wasn't just about getting a good grade; it was about building a sense of accomplishment and pride, even when you felt unsure or defeated.

And so, every time I saw someone struggle with something, whether it was math, science, or whatever other subject they were studying, I knew that it wasn't their fault. It was my own lack of self-belief that had made them feel this way in the first place.

As I grew older and into more responsibilities, I realized that sometimes, even when we think we're not confident enough, it's hard to tell if those feelings are genuine or just a reflection of our past failures. But knowing that someone else had done everything to help us see through their mistakes made me feel more secure.

In the end, I didn't focus on how difficult each problem was and didn't try to escape failure. Instead, I focused on becoming the best version of myself and making sure that no matter what, I would continue to trust in my abilities. And as time went on, I began to see changes in how people felt about them—changes that were genuine and not just a waste of energy.

This wasn't just about math anymore; it was about confidence. Confidence isn't just in one area—it's everywhere. It's how you handle tough problems, the way you stand when others doubt you, and even how you look at someone else's struggles without beating them hard. And that's exactly why I kept trying to prove myself every day—even when I knew I couldn't win everything.

And so, trusting my own potential and accepting that failure is part of growth, I continued on, pushing harder each time and seeing progress both in the test and in other areas of my life. From then on, I was confident to face challenges with the same strength and pride I had learned from Mr. Thompson's classes.

That night when I saw the screen display my name again, knowing that I wasn't the only person who could feel better after working harder, was a reminder of why I kept trying so hard every day. It was about not being afraid to take on new challenges and trusting in my own potential to overcome whatever obstacle lay ahead.

And as I walked away from the library that night, I couldn't help but think about how this story would affect someone else in the years to come. The lessons I learned, like taking charge of your work, facing failures without letting them define you, and trusting in your own abilities—would carry on into the future.

That night, after brushing my teeth again, I knew that I'd done better than ever since, both physically and mentally. And with that knowledge, I turned back to math class with a new plan: not just trying problems but taking them one step at a time, writing down everything as if it were code, and making sure each answer felt correct before moving on.

In the end, even the hardest questions would start to make sense because they were built from smaller pieces of confidence. And that was why I kept pushing through my anxiety and nervousness—a way of building strength for what lay ahead.