I couldn’t keep my head in the classroom. By the end of each day I felt totally drained and anxious. Normally I’d sit near the front and attempt to answer en espanol. But for two weeks, I’d forget simple vocabulary when called on and barely finished my homework each night. I could tell my professor was confused by this change in my work.
This is the time in the semester when something similar happens to many of us. There’s no longer a rosy start-of-the-semester glow, and personal things start to build up. It’s so cold that there’s no longer any reason to consider leaving your dorm. You start drinking coffee at 6 p.m. and the employees at Alpine are seriously worried about your late night coffee consumption. You’ve learned the names of each Wendy’s employee who works after midnight.
With the academic slippage comes the worry that professors think you’re a slacker. That good, old-fashioned UNC insecurity comes in — do I really deserve to go here? Am I just lazy? Do my professors take my inattention as an insult? Fortunately, these questions are answerable.
Our professors are people too. Last January, when my grandfather died of Alzheimer’s, I had to miss class for his funeral. I was worried professors would laugh it off as another dead grandparent excuse. But I emailed them anyway, explaining the situation. Several professors responded to extend their condolences and share similar stories.
If you’re feeling overwhelmed, depressed or anxious, take a chance and talk to your professors about it. Sure, they might give you a curt response or say something rude. But please: Don’t assume that that’s the only outcome. Talking to your professors about hardship is the best way to turn a semester around, especially considering how much of our validation as students comes from how we think our professors perceive us.
Maybe that professor has battled depression too. Maybe that professor has dealt with a learning disability. Maybe he or she has dealt with addiction and understands the difficulty of recovery.
Back to Spanish class last semester. I eventually got up the courage to go to my professor’s office hours.
“I know I’ve been slipping these past two weeks,” I told him. “It’s not that I don’t care about your class — I do. I’ve been having a really hard time at UNC lately.”
I didn’t get into the details with him — the struggles with adjusting to the male-dominated culture at UNC or how I wondered if I’d ever feel safe here. I just told him I was having a tough time, but that I cared about his class.