That summer, I spent my time submitting applications and eventually got accepted into my new college. Everyone was excited, more excited than they were for my first college. That’s the one thing my family will never let me forget: how much better this college supposedly was. 

How better than my old school? Better for me. Better for my future. I disagree, but at that point, I didn’t think my opinion even mattered. 

I started there under a major that was basically assigned based on my transfer credits and the closest to the nursing track. 

Health Communication

All I was missing were a few more classes to meet my nursing requirements at that school. Unlike my other school, I had two chances to get into the school. At the time, it sounded comforting, but as future me is writing this, I would say otherwise. 

My classes were manageable: one science course and a couple of communication classes. Science class was fine, I passed with a B. 

But there was one specific professor. Marvin Yeng. Obviously, I’m not using his real name; it’s a play on it, but the anger I feel toward that man is very real. Even now, over a year later, I think about him, which makes me mad. 

His class was on Monday. Class always started at 6 pm and ended at 8:30 pm. Or what was told my the colleague. But somehow, every single time, he’d drop it to almost 9 pm. We would have to beg him to end class. My commute to this class was almost 2 hours, so I had to go through my neighborhood. 

Daily quizzes, exams, and no one was passing. People tried to cheat, but no matter what, they always failed. 

Yes, the professor should challenge you, I get that, but there is a difference between challenging and just outright being difficult. 

You know that feeling when you walk into something already just anxious, and you have this feeling that no matter how much you try, you are still going to fail. That’s what the class felt like every single day. 

Honestly. I’m angry at him. But I’m angrier at myself. Because I should’ve dropped the class. I should have listened to the reviews. I should have protected myself instead of trying to push through it. And I didn’t. 

It still bothers me so much to this day, because looking back, I can pinpoint that semester as the beginning of one of the worst periods of my life. 

My restart wasn’t even a restart but a complete bust. And I ended that semester with a D. 

My GPA had dropped to a 2.3. Seeing that crushed me; I think I exploded with anger more than anything. Because I just blew my chances. 

How stupid am I? Not just cause it was a bad grade, but it was proof I wasn’t cut out for this. I passed science great, but my GPA is the most important thing. I tried so hard. I hae that i have to keep writing it because I feel like I’m lying, but it’s true. I tried so hard. Even to this day, that stupid D stays in my head. I feel like if I keep saying his name, he’s going to spawn like Bloody Mary. 

Why didn’t I drop the class? Why didn’t I choose a different class? Why did I stay? Why didn’t I consult someone? 

I think the hardest part of my failure is not just the moment, but how long the regret lingers afterward.