When I was a child, I was a little slow at math.
Many of the concepts that seemed normal to everyone else did not make sense to me. By fifth or sixth grade, I think I was completely lost.
Still, I had collected pieces of mathematics over the years.
I remember one teacher arriving with a briefcase full of geometrical shapes. She held them against the big board and used them to draw and explain different angles. I remember enjoying that class. I remember what she taught and how she taught it.
I had paid attention.
I just did not know how the pieces fit together.
By sixth grade, one of my biggest challenges was finding X.
It felt magical to me that so many other students could do it. They moved numbers around and somehow X appeared.
I could not find X. It was as simple as that.
Maybe the subject was called algebra by then. Whatever it was called, I thought X was some sort of zebra. That creature was mysterious to me.
Then, on the night before a difficult exam, my older brother sat with me for a couple of hours.
The exam was mostly algebra. I do not remember exactly what my brother said or which questions we solved. I remember that he taught me.
And I learned something.
I also remember that he said something to my mother afterward—maybe that I was a good student, or something to that effect. I do not remember the exact words.
The next day, I took the exam.
I do not remember whether I scored one hundred percent, eighty percent, or sixty percent. I was not suddenly number one.
I remember only that I did fine.
But something began after that night.
I started practicing math almost every day.
In seventh or eighth grade, my father once asked me how many questions I had solved that day.
“Eight,” I told him.
He did not seem particularly happy.
Eight probably sounded too small to him. Maybe his yardstick was the number of questions a tenth grader should solve. A few years later, my own number would be much higher.
But in seventh or eighth grade, my number was eight.
I was still slow. Many questions still did not make sense. I took much longer than other students.
But I was consistent. I was persistent.
I did eight.
Then I returned the next day.
I do not know where that quality came from. I do not think anyone particularly taught it to me. I only know that I did not give up.
I just could not give up.
I adore that quality now—not only in myself, but in anyone I see it in.
Over the next two or three years, the number of questions increased—eventually, almost exponentially. I became faster. The pieces I had collected—the shapes in the briefcase, the angles on the board, the algebra my brother showed me—began to join together.
Many years later, I was steadily number one in math. I scored one hundred percent, or close to it, even on national exams.
Those scores came much later.
But when I think about how I reached them, I do not think first about the exams, the rankings, or the perfect marks.
To this day, I credit one thing: those eight questions I practiced.
Daily.