About fifteen years after I graduated from high school I decided to further my education. So when my twin daughters entered first grade, I began attending college. And soon after that I enrolled in a foreign language course. This was a challenge. I began to question my ability and became very doubtful about the wisdom of my decision, especially since some of my grades in high school had been poor. I wondered whether I was intellectually capable of keeping up the pace of assimilating a new language. I also felt that if I didn't perform well on the next series of tests, I would have difficulty finding the time later to correctly learn the material before final examinations. (At that point my children still required much of my time, and I was commuting six hours a week to and from college.)
Still, I didn't feel it was right to quit. I continued my usual weekly language lesson assignments and even hired a tutor. Despite these efforts I became so fearful during the next test that I had to steady my writing hand to keep it from trembling while the professor was dictating to the class. I made a poor grade on that test and on the one a week later.
Feeling that I had to do something quickly and thinking the solution was strictly an academic one, I went to my professor for advice. He made a sincere effort to help me and advised me to continue my weekly audio and workbook exercises. But since I had been faithful in doing this, I left his office feeling absolutely helpless.
