I’ve always loved school. Learning was my escape — my way of staying hopeful and focused, even when life felt chaotic. But if I’m being honest, I’ve always had a complicated relationship with numbers. So this blog is me being vulnerable, but also that even now that I am in college I dont have everything figured out and that sometimes I need to ask for help.
This didn’t fully hit me until I was sitting in Statistics for Behavioral Sciences during this semester. I was excited to be in a psychology class that combined theory with data, but once we got into formulas, calculations, and SPSS outputs, things got hard — fast. I began noticing hiccups I had always brushed off before: I would mix my numbers from right to left instead of left to right. I’d second-guess myself over small details. The pace felt fast, and for the first time in a long time, I felt behind.
In high school, I had a bit more grace. My graduating class was small — just 21 students — and teachers could give me extra time without paperwork or explanations. I did not have special accommodations because I always thought that I was just slower at understanding numbers. But college was different. The support systems were there, but I had to know how to ask. And I didn’t really know how — at least not yet. Growing up in a rural environment shaped a lot of how I learned, especially in elementary school. I didn’t start speaking English until I was around six years old, and my teachers were so focused on getting me to learn English that they overlooked everything else — especially math. I remember being in 2nd grade being pulled out of class to do a little English exam to make sure I was at a reading and speaking comprehension level for my age. I was passed along year after year without anyone really sitting me down to teach me the foundations. I almost got held back during 2nd grade, but somehow I was just let through the system. And because of that, I missed a bit critical skills.
In high school, the cracks started to show. My math teacher would notice these a bit, but would always allow me to come back after class or during lunch to finish my exam. And it did me wonders, I think I really benefitted from that extra time.
But in college, the gaps became canyons.
That stats class reminded me of everything I’d been carrying: the inequities in my early education, the years I spent faking confidence in math just to keep up, and the weight of feeling like I had to catch up — quietly, quickly, and without making a scene. But here’s the part I’m proud of: I didn’t give up.
I asked questions even when I felt like the only one who didn’t get it. I rewatched lectures. I gave myself grace. And most importantly, I stopped pretending I had to learn like everyone else. I could learn — I just needed to learn my way. Of course, even though all of that helped, I still had unanswered questions. Why did things that seemed to click for others take me so long to grasp? Why was I still mixing up numbers or blanking mid-problem, even when I had studied?
So, I started reaching out. I brought it up with my professor, my therapist at the Counseling Center (CCMH), my class dean, and eventually, Accessibility Services. Through those conversations, I learned that what I was experiencing could be signs of ADHD — or possibly Dyscalculia. At first, that idea scared me. I worried that a diagnosis might define me or limit how others saw me. But after sitting with it, I realized it could also bring clarity — not just for others, but for me. I decided to pursue testing. And honestly, without asking for help from all these support systems on campus, I wouldn’t have known where to start. I wouldn’t have had the tools, the language, or the guidance to figure out what was really going on beneath the surface.That’s why I’m writing this blog. Because sometimes it’s not just about studying more or trying harder. Sometimes, the setbacks you’re experiencing have deeper roots — and that doesn’t make you broken. It makes you human.
If you’re struggling, and you’re telling yourself “it’s just me,” or “I should be able to figure this out on my own,” please know this: you don’t have to. Amherst has support systems in place — real ones — and if you ask for help, they’ll meet you where you are. You deserve that support. I didn’t always believe I did. But I’m glad I finally asked.
Not everyone has everything figured out — and that’s something I’m still learning to accept. I remember having a conversation with one of my professors who opened up to me about not discovering they were neurodivergent until graduate school. That moment really stayed with me. It reminded me that there’s no deadline for understanding yourself, no perfect timeline for getting it “right.” I used to think I just had to push through college, get the degrees, land the job — and then finally I’d feel whole, accomplished, and in control. But I’m starting to see that life doesn’t really work like that. Everyone is carrying something, whether they talk about it or not. And knowing that — truly knowing that — has taken some of the weight off my shoulders. Because the truth is: you’re never going to have everything figured out. And that’s okay. It’s not about perfection. It’s about being human. Rebuilding confidence after academic setbacks isn’t about getting everything right. It’s about continuing to show up, especially when it’s hard. Especially when it feels like no one else understands. I’m still learning — and probably always will be — but I’ve come a long way. And that process of showing up, of choosing to believe in myself when it’s easiest not to? That’s the real success.