Up until high school, I was considered a kid with above-average intelligence. I’d cruise through the exams, and I admit I was not at the top of my class or anything. But I’d always be in the top 10%.
Almost all of my teachers gave the same feedback; she is smart but lacks concentration.
I’d laugh at them, thinking, why should I worry? Smartness is what you need to succeed!
Boy, was I wrong! When I started my undergrad, it was a metaphorical falling on my face moment. I drudged through my first year, and when the results of my second year came out, they sucked. By this point, I was annoyed with myself. I was able to study so well in high school; what happened now?
One day, we were cleaning my house, and I found some old books of mine. Opening them was like a slap to my face because they were filled with answers. Not assignments or notes, just hundreds of pages of study notes, questions I formulated for myself, things I quizzed myself over and over again.
I had completely forgotten about it. Here I thought that I was smart in high school, but as it turns out, I just worked my butt off.
I wrote my final year exams with great enthusiasm. I wish I could give my story a cinematic ending and say that I was the topper of the class, but I’d be lying. I managed to scrape my CGPA to about a somewhat acceptable range. That year taught me a thing or two about averages too.
