We must accept finite disappointment, but never lose finite hope — Martin Luther King Jr.
I looked up from the computer screen and saw disappointment in my mom’s eyes. My results made sure I wasn’t getting into my dream university. Although the dream was mine, it was equally hers.
I gave it my best shot. I had done all the right things. Studied the best I could, enrolled in extra classes to get tips and tricks for the test, sacrificed Saturday nights for test prep. Yet, despite the mock test scores, futile percentile ranges, innumerable extra curriculars, and false hopes from my peers, I still did not get through. I was disappointed. There must have been a mistake.
But no matter how many times I looked at the result in secret, it did not change. And no matter how many times mom said, “it was gonna be okay” I knew she was disappointed as was I. The reassurance from neighbors/relatives/well-wishers suggesting XYZ did not get into that college either or there’s always a good reason for what happens, the sting of rejection hurt.
In that moment, it felt like the end.
What could I do next? How would I talk to friends who did well and were on their way to success. I couldn’t seem to figure a way out of that moment.
