Chapter 2: First Shock
798 Words
By the time the second week started, I had already stopped expecting school to feel easy.
But I still didn’t expect it to feel like this.
There’s a difference between knowing something will be hard… and actually living inside it.
That was my first shock.
The lecture hall was fuller this time. People had started settling into groups—those who already knew each other from admission days, those who acted like they belonged everywhere, and people like me who were still quietly observing everything.
I sat in the middle row this time. I thought it would help me focus better.
It didn’t.
The lecturer walked in again, same pace, same energy—like he was chasing something invisible.
And then it started.
New topic.
New terms.
New concepts.
No pause.
No check if we were following.
Just movement.
My pen started moving automatically. My brain was not.
Halfway through the lecture, I stopped writing for a second and just listened.
That was a mistake.
Because I realized I wasn’t just behind…
I was lost.
It wasn’t that the lecturer was bad.
It was worse than that.
He assumed we were already at a level we had not reached yet.
And everyone else seemed to be pretending they were there.
I looked around.
Some people were nodding.
Some were typing.
Some were whispering like they understood something deeper than what was on the board.
That was when it hit me again.
In school, looking confused is dangerous.
So people hide it.
Even when they’re drowning.
After the lecture, I tried asking someone a question.
Just one simple question.
“What did you understand from that part?”
The guy looked at me like I had asked him to explain the meaning of life.
Then he laughed slightly.
“Just read it again,” he said.
And walked away.
That answer didn’t help.
But it taught me something.
Not everyone who looks available is actually willing to help.
Back in my room that evening, I opened my notes again.
Same pattern.
Words I wrote fast but didn’t absorb.
Diagrams I copied but couldn’t explain.
Pages filled with effort… but not understanding.
I tried reading the textbook again.
Still nothing.
That was the first time frustration started mixing with confusion.
And frustration feels heavier.
Because confusion still has hope inside it.
Frustration starts removing that hope slowly.
Later that night, I overheard people outside my room talking.
Laughing.
Joking about lectures.
One of them said, “That topic no even hard, na simple thing.”
I paused.
Simple thing?
I sat back down slowly and stared at my notebook.
Maybe I was the problem.
That thought came quietly, but it stayed longer than I wanted.
The next day was worse.
Another lecture.
Another fast explanation.
Another set of notes that didn’t make sense.
But this time, something new happened.
Assignments.
Real ones.
Not small questions.
Work that required understanding I didn’t have yet.
That was when panic started showing its face properly.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just steady pressure in my chest every time I looked at the questions.
I tried to start one assignment that night.
I wrote the question down.
I read it again.
Then again.
Then I just stared at it.
Blank.
No direction.
No idea where to begin.
For the first time, I understood what people meant when they said:
“You don’t know what you don’t know.”
Because I didn’t even know what part I was supposed to be confused about.
Days started blending after that.
Lectures. Notes. Confusion. Sleep. Repeat.
But something else started happening too.
I began noticing small patterns.
People forming study groups.
People asking questions more confidently.
People pretending less… or maybe hiding better.
And I realized something uncomfortable:
School doesn’t slow down for those who are struggling.
It just moves faster for those who are coping.
One evening, I stayed back in class longer than usual.
Almost empty hall.
Just me, my notes, and silence.
I tried reading again.
This time, I didn’t expect to understand everything.
I just wanted to understand something.
And slowly, painfully, one small idea made sense.
Just one.
But it was enough to make me realize something important.
Understanding doesn’t always come all at once.
Sometimes it comes in pieces.
And you have to stay long enough to collect them.
Walking back that night, the campus felt different again.
Not easier.
Not clearer.
Just more real.
School wasn’t a place I was going to master quickly.
It was something I had to adjust to slowly.
Even if it meant being confused for a while.
Even if it meant feeling behind.
Even if it meant starting small.
Because the truth was simple:
Nobody escapes the shock.
Some people just learn how to survive it faster.
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