For a long time, I told myself the story that I just couldn’t make the jump—from Rabbi Harry Halpern Day School to Midwood High School. Smaller, structured, everyone knows you—to big, anonymous, easy to disappear. That explanation always felt neat. It also never felt complete.
What I’ve come to understand is that the issue wasn’t the transition. It was what I brought with me.
At home, education wasn’t just important—it was everything. Grades weren’t feedback; they were judgment. When they were high, things were fine. When they weren’t, the reaction wasn’t disappointment—it felt like something much heavier. Pressure, criticism, intensity that went beyond school. It sticks with you.
So when I got to Midwood, something changed. Not externally—internally. For the first time, I had room. Less structure. Less immediate oversight. And instead of rising to meet it, I pulled back.
Because when performance is tied to that kind of pressure, trying isn’t neutral. Trying means exposure. It means risking that same reaction again. So not trying becomes a form of protection. If you don’t engage, you can’t be judged the same way. You control the outcome by lowering the stakes.
I didn’t see it that way at the time. I thought I just didn’t adjust. That I somehow lost the ability to be a good student. But that’s not what happened. I stepped away from the game because of what the game had come to represent.
Midwood didn’t break me. It gave me space. And with that space, I chose distance over pressure.
Understanding that doesn’t excuse it. But it explains why it happened—and why it felt so confusing for so long.
