What My Father Taught Me About Effort, Learning, and Becoming

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Growing up, I was average.

Average intellect.Average grades. I was an average, happy kid who loved to play.

By third grade, I was already struggling academically in one of the most elite private convent schools in the state I grew up in. My IQ could only take me so far.

But I loved my school.

I loved my teachers, my friends, and the crisp pleated uniforms. The church bells ringing through the convent halls. The smell of books and polished floors.

My father chose this school for me when I was three.

Not because he wanted the status of saying his daughters studied in an elite private school.But because he genuinely believed not just in the safety the school provided young girls, but also the values it imparted to them in a society that was deeply patriarchal as well as performative.  

Long before words like “women's empowerment” became fashionable, he planted in me the belief that I was no less than men.

And he did something else that shaped my life forever: He gave me reality without fear.

At a very young age, he openly spoke to me about the limitations women faced in the society we came from. It was not trauma. It was not pressure. It was honesty.

No sugarcoating. No pretending the world was fair.

Just a father preparing his daughter to survive and thrive.

Then he supported me fiercely until he knew I could stand on my own.

I still remember the day he was called to a parent meeting with the teacher and principal, because of my report card full of D’s.

It shook him.

He had dreams for me, and I think, for a moment, he saw them crumbling.

I remember him coming home quiet and sad.

But not once did he yell at me. Not once did he shame me. Not once did he ask: “What is wrong with you?”

Life simply continued.

However, he did one small thing that changed everything.

Usually, after school, I would throw my bag aside, eat a snack, and run off to play with my cousins until late evening.

But that day, my father was waiting for me at home.

He smiled and said, “Go eat something and bring me your school bag. Let’s have some fun. Show me your books. I want to see what school is like.”

There was no fear in his voice. No disappointment. Only curiosity and warmth.

So I proudly showed him everything.

My geography book.My handwriting.My notebooks.My stories.

And he sat there admiring my work like it was a treasure.

“Wow, I love this.”You write so beautifully.”This is so interesting.”

But while he was praising me, he was also quietly observing: unfinished work, minimal effort, short answers, a child who was intelligent enough to survive but far too distracted by play and joy to compete in a demanding academic environment.

And he understood instantly: his daughter was not failing because she lacked worth. She was simply average. A child. A playful little girl.

But he also knew something else.

He knew the world we came from did not always forgive average girls.

He knew how easily girls disappeared into sacrifice: marriage, caretaking, serving everyone else, slowly losing themselves.

And he refused to let that become my story.

Not because he wanted achievement. But because he wanted freedom for me.

So he intervened — gently, intelligently, without breaking my spirit.

He never stopped me from playing. He never took away my childhood.

Instead, he connected with me.

He came home earlier. He sat with me at the table. He helped me with homework not as an authority, but as a companion. He told me jokes between lessons. He applauded me when I finished even small tasks. And only then did he say, “Now you can go play.”

Slowly, without me even noticing, something began to shift.

I started enjoying learning.

Geography became stories. History became characters. Writing became an expression.

My teachers began to notice too.“Excellent work.”Great improvement.”Very well done.”

My grades shifted from C’s to A’s. My rank climbed — first to the top 5, then to the top 3.

And something even deeper shifted inside me: my self-belief.

I realized effort creates outcomes. Hard work creates change. And achievement feels good — not because it defines you, but because it reflects you trying.

My confidence grew. My self-esteem grew.

But I was never taught to tie my worth to my rank — only to take pride in my effort.

As I entered high school, something else quietly evolved.

The resistance I once had toward studying disappeared.

Homework was no longer something I avoided. It became something I shaped.

My father gradually stepped back — not because he stopped caring, but because he knew I had learned how to care for my own growth.

I created my own learning world.

A small desk. A comfortable chair. Colorful pencils. A lamp I loved. A space that felt like mine.

Sometimes I became a teacher, explaining lessons out loud. Sometimes I turned history into a performance. Sometimes I memorized through rhythm and song. Sometimes I acted out entire chapters like a theatre.

Learning was no longer an effort.

It was a play.

And looking back now, I realize:

My father didn’t just help me study.

He taught me how to love learning. And in doing so, he gave me a life-long relationship with growth that no exam could ever measure.

And that is the gift I will always cherish and carry for the rest of my life.