In September 2015, I embarked on my university journey.
In high school, people told me my grades would drop. And naïve Herminia believed them. So I prepared myself to not do nearly as well. Somehow I did.
During first year, I didn’t think too much about my GPA. I thought about doing the work and being early to everything.
Come the fall of 2016, I learned that I won two academic scholarships.
Instead of thinking I was stupid, I felt somewhat smart.
In second year, I spent less time studying and more time living. My grades were a little all over the place as a result. I remember countless conversations with my best friend about how terrible I was doing. I joked about dropping out.
So I vowed to do better in third year. My fall semester went smoothly. I had great classes, good professors. I liked my grades. I lived a lot. If I could relive those four months again, I would.
2018 arrived. Second semester in the winter started off just fine. No problem. Smooth sailing. Until February when I got hit by a car while walking home from school.
It took more than a month to recover physically. I’m not sure I’ll ever recover mentally. I’m doing well these days.
I never wanted to make excuses. I didn’t ask for an extension on any assignments.
My grades dropped. But I took care of myself. Being forced to listen to my body made me a better human being.
Regardless of my GPA when all is said and done, I’m proud. I learned to listen to that tiny voice in my head, to the body I used to neglect. That matters more than any number on a piece of paper.