Changing the Subject

This year kept handing me the same test

I’ve been taking my whole life.

Different names. Different faces.

Same questions.

Same hope I’d finally pass.

I failed it again.

Not because I didn’t study—

I memorized the patterns, learned the formulas,

knew where it would hurt,

knew what it meant when love sounded

like a warning instead of a promise.

Still, I bubbled the wrong answers.

My body tried to teach me—

the ache in my chest, the tightening I ignored,

the laughter I lost somewhere mid-July,

the way grief moved in and refused to leave.

I kept writing excuses in the margins.

I thought endurance led to growth.

I thought staying earned credit.

I thought pain was proof of progress—

if it hurt enough,

it was fulfilling some requirement.

But this year made it clear—

you can study the materials,

hire a tutor, schedule office hours,

and still not understand the assignment.

Next year, I am not repeating the class.

I am not rereading the same stories

with old metaphors and outdated endings.

I am changing to another course of study.

One where communication is a requirement.

One where intentionality isn’t for extra credit.

One where acceptance isn’t something I have to plead for.

I am not ending the year triumphant.

Earned no special honors.

Simply educated enough to know

I will not earn my degree

in the major I’ve been pursuing.

Hmm……maybe I just passed my first test.