I know that I shouldn’t be so incredibly disappointed, but I am. For the first time since graduate school began I received less than an A for my final grade. In one of my courses this semester I got a B+. For me, a B+ isn’t good enough, and I am terribly distraught.
I know that grading isn’t systematic and we’re basically relying on each teacher’s subjectivity; if I’d had a different professor I may have easily gotten an A for the same performance and the same work. That doesn’t really matter at this point, however, as I had the professor that I had and she gave me a B+.
I know. I should be proud of myself just for being in graduate school, trying my best, and attending classes these past 15 weeks while juggling being a single parent, being pregnant, and dealing with the mix of emotions that have surfaced since separating from my abusive husband.
I know. It’s graduate school, and I unless I’m planning on going for my PhD (which I’m contemplating) it won’t really matter what my grades were as long as I get my degree. But getting a 4.0 meant a lot to me. Maybe it’s because I didn’t try my hardest in undergrad? Maybe it was just because I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it. I like challenging myself.
This feels like failure.
I know that I have excelled at so many things. I suppose the mere fact that I’m keeping my head above water lately, and surviving off of three hours of anxiety-filled sleep each night for the past seven months is…something similar to an accomplishment. But the B+ saddens me.
I know that I will still proudly walk the stage, content that I did the best job I could do in every course I studied. Ten years from now I will not think about the B+ that I received and how much it tormented me. For the next few days, however, I will be sulking. Death to the 4.0 GPA.
The loss of another dream.