From a young age, I stood out—not for academic brilliance, but for the quiet battles I fought within myself. While I learned to read early, the ease of those early years gave way to confusion and mental fog as schoolwork became more complex. Numbers never made sense to me; dyscalculia turned math into a foreign language, and my mind often wandered, escaping into daydreams when tasks became overwhelming. My concentration faltered, and I began to shut down under pressure. Teachers saw me as inattentive, but inside, I was fighting to stay afloat in a world that didn’t seem built for the way my brain worked.
My confidence suffered. I carried a persistent sense of inadequacy, questioning my own intelligence and worth. Though kind and deeply empathetic, I was a slow-moving perfectionist—afraid to get things wrong, yet often feeling like I did. My emotional landscape was shaped not only by academic struggles but by a complicated, often painful relationship with my mother. Born into a home where my mother had wished for a boy and suffered from postpartum depression, I grew up with a void in maternal connection. I yearned for affection but also resented it, often projecting my emotional confusion onto mother figures and even going so far as to turn off my phone’s location services as a form of rebellion and self-protection.
Despite the emotional weight I carried, I was headstrong—determined in a way that surprised those around me. A moment that became family lore happened when I was just under two years old: a toy placed out of reach on top of the refrigerator somehow ended up in my tiny hands, retrieved with stealth and purpose. It wasn’t just mischief—it was early evidence of my laser focus, my ability to pursue what I wanted, no matter the obstacle.
My saving grace as a child came in the form of teachers who saw beyond my struggles. Gail Wories, a nurturing presence during my early school years, noticed my difficulty with math and stepped in, offering one-on-one help and even restructuring her day to give us more time. When my mother dismissed my need for glasses as fakery, Gail believed me, moved me to the front of the class, and wrapped me in a hug the day I finally got the glasses I needed. I, in turn, grew emotionally dependent on teachers like Gail—adults who offered the stability and encouragement I lacked at home.
The moment I read Little Women in third grade, Gail shared the achievement with other teachers, a rare moment of recognition that made me feel seen for my strengths. Later, in high school, another key figure entered my life: Joel Noorman. Blunt but perceptive, he challenged my self-doubt by telling me (my words, not his), “You’re too smart to be this stupid.” It was the first time someone confronted my internalized beliefs head-on, and it stuck. Slowly, I began to shift—not by erasing my struggles, but by learning that intelligence comes in many forms and that my unique wiring didn’t make me broken.
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