One Win Is Enough: A short story on confidence and self-trust in the face of adversity

I was in the fifth grade when I first realized I had a gift to write. We had an assignment to write an essay for the D.A.R.E. program, and I took it seriously. I can still remember the excitement of working on it, the pride I felt in my words. I didn’t know it at the time, but that moment would plant a seed that would follow me for the rest of my life.

When the winners were announced, I heard my name. Out of the entire fifth grade class, my essay had been chosen as the winner. I was awarded a medal and recognized in front of my peers at an assembly. It was the first time I was acknowledged publicly for something I had created. That moment mattered. It mattered deeply. And I chose to believe it meant something real about me.

That belief stayed with me.

In high school, my English teacher, Ms. Kirlangitis, became one of my greatest encouragers. She gave me structure, taught me how to write persuasively, and constantly affirmed that I was a talented writer. With her help, my confidence grew from tools and technique, from feedback and praise. By the time I graduated, I believed I was a good writer, not just because someone said so, but because I had the evidence to back it up.

When I got to college, that belief was strong enough that I refused to take the standard Composition 101 class. I felt like I had already done the work. I had written research papers, studied APA formatting, and sharpened my academic voice. I assumed I would eventually get out of it altogether. But in my junior year, the registrar informed me it was required to graduate. So I enrolled, reluctantly.

It was a creative writing class and I thought it was a joke. The professor challenged me to loosen up. He said I was too structured, too polished. He wanted me to be more fluid. More free. And I thought he was crazy. I tried to give him what he wanted, but all my years of study were hard to shake. And he gave me a B-minus.

I had NEVER earned a B- in English. I was pissed and I demanded he explain. He told me he would consider changing it if I could convince him that I deserved it.  I was a cocky one, and he wanted to humble me for sure. I explained my point of view, advocated for myself, and eventually he agreed to change the grade to an A-. But even if he hadn’t, I knew it wouldn’t have changed anything for me. That grade wasn’t going to undo all the evidence I had already collected. I didn’t make it mean something it didn’t. It didn’t shake my confidence or call my identity into question.

That’s self-trust.

And it started in the fifth grade.

So often, it’s the opposite for us. We let early failures teach us not to believe in ourselves. We collect evidence of our doubt. We stack disappointments and rejections and call them proof. We tell ourselves that our success was a fluke. That we just got lucky. That someone else helped us too much. That the win didn’t really count.

But what if we did the opposite?

What if we allowed our early wins, no matter how small, to be the proof we carry? What if we treated success like the sign it is? What if we refused to let a bad grade, or one critical voice, or one moment of failure convince us that everything we’ve built is fraudulent?

The fifth-grade version of me was bold. She took her medal seriously. She didn’t wait for someone else to crown her. She let that win anchor her confidence—and I’ve been building on that ever since.

So here’s what I want you to consider.

What moment gave you permission to believe in yourself?
What win did you have, even if it was early, even if it was small, that you’ve downplayed or dismissed?
And what would change if you chose to see that moment as your evidence instead of your exception?

Hold on to the truth.
Let the wins count.
And when failure shows up—because it will—don’t let it rewrite the story.

You are allowed to believe in your gift.
You are allowed to fight for it.
And when you do, the world will respond.