I’ve never considered myself smart. Since the beginning of elementary school, I’ve felt myself fall behind. My friends seemed to think school was fun and simple. Meanwhile, I despised it; it had created a perception of myself that was completely unworthy of being a student at all. Throughout high school, I forced myself to take advanced placement classes while what I really wanted was to take more music electives. I spent hours at the library perfecting essays. I worked with a math tutor to solve the horror of geometry. I kept a decently high GPA. 

But, it still wasn’t enough. The kids around me were getting near-perfect SAT scores while receiving acceptances into the University of Michigan like it was easy. As soon as I felt happy with my progress, there was always another student next to me complaining that they lost one point on the same test I lost ten on. 

While I will never call myself smart, I am a hard worker. My time in high school has been spent playing Ice Hockey, singing in choir, tutoring in the Writing Center, working a job, volunteering at the Humane Society, and being a camp counselor. In my four years, I’ve met people who’ve changed my outlook on life, in good and bad ways. I’ve felt the happiest and saddest feelings that I’ve ever known. While I’ve been frustrated at the world for making high school so difficult, I’ve felt the exhilaration when things suddenly don’t feel so hard anymore. Though I’ve ended with low grades in many math classes, it’s taught me that my life is not determined by how fast I can understand an algebraic equation. 

While high school is one dilemma, the life my mind has lived is another. I’ve been drained by mental illness, friend problems, heartbreak, body image, the past, and the future. My classmates may have watched me remain silent for weeks. They may have seen me struggle to get through the day. From the outside, I remained silent. From the inside, I was falling. While those feelings were extremely sad, they were also powerful. They inspired dramatic poems capturing strange lives and dubious words. They allowed me to sing emoting melodies to the pang of an acoustic guitar. Those feelings allowed me to be a person again; those words helped me understand that I was going to be okay. 

Now, I am an eighteen-year-old with a little more of an idea of the person I want to be. Next week I will graduate high school, and next year I will begin college. A freshman once again, this time, I’m sure of who I am. I want to be the kind of person who makes a difference. I’d like to be a person who is kind rather than silent; a person who is creative and passionate. But, most of all, I’d like to call myself smart.