I took the first of my last three finals yesterday.
This particular test was for my English class, which I've made out to be quite notorious in many of my recent posts over this past semester. This is the class that made me contemplate changing a lot of my life decisions, the class that I felt I worked the hardest in, the class in which, in my mind, my efforts failed to produce the grades I felt I deserved.
And I couldn't motivate myself to study for the final.
With my job reaching newfound heights in duties and responsibilities, as I try to strengthen friendships for the next few months, as I try to maintain the rest of my hobbies, I have had a seriously hard time just wanting to study. By the time I finally dragged myself to do it, I had an hour before my test.
As usually happens in these sorts of circumstances, I felt the greatest motivation to work when I had little to no time left to do so. As I looked over my notes, however, I nonetheless began to feel relieved.
I'd paid attention in my class. I'd studied hard before this week. I knew that, while I wouldn't get the best grade possible for someone of my understanding and dedication toward this particular subject (or, in other words, a hundred percent is far beyond my realm of achievement at the moment), I would be able to pull off a final grade of which I would still be proud.
Really though, and this was the important part. Even if I failed in a dismal blaze of inglory, regardless, I knew things would turn out all right in the end. This one test would define neither me as a person, nor my individual overall success.
I still don't know what I got for my final's grade, but I walked out happy knowing I'd done my best with what I'd had. And that, my friends, made all the difference.
No comments:
Post a Comment