Disclaimer: This content is educational and based on 20+ years of case management experience. It is not medical advice, clinical guidance, or legal counsel. Consult with qualified healthcare providers, case managers, and legal professionals for decisions affecting your care.
I came across a post this morning that asked a simple question: Share a book that changed your life forever.
I didn't have to think about it.
How To Read A Book by Mortimer J. Adler.
I remember the exact line that changed the course of my life and made me at peace with who I am:
Paraphrased: Whenever you read something you don't understand, that's the only chance you're ever given to recognize the opportunity to learn something new.
Read that again. Slowly.
Before that line, I had written myself off. Mathematics? Too hard. Science? Not for me. I didn't understand them, so I decided they were impossible and that decision bled into everything else. My grades tanked across the board. Even English, which should have been manageable, became another class I was failing. It wasn't my fault, though. It was the teachers. They weren't teaching right. Or so I told myself.
By my junior year, I was seriously contemplating dropping out of high school.
Then I picked up this book, not to learn, but as a weapon. A rebellious jab at my English teacher. The title was bold, bright, and practically begging to be held up during mandatory reading time. I could already picture the look on her face. How To Read A Book. In her class. During silent reading. Comedy gold.
What I didn't anticipate was the book rebelling right back at me.
That one line (the idea that confusion isn't failure, it's opportunity) detonated everything I believed about myself. I had spent years running from what I didn't understand. Adler told me to run toward it. That the discomfort of not understanding wasn't proof I was stupid. It was the exact moment I was being given a chance to grow.
So I tested it. I started asking questions in class. Real ones, not the kind designed to look like I was paying attention. I worked through lessons until I had at least a basic understanding before moving on. I made it a point to sit in the front row. Not because I was suddenly a model student, but because I figured if I was going to try this, I might as well go all in.
Some days I sat there absorbing words and understanding nothing. But I stayed. I kept showing up. And somewhere in that stubborn persistence, something shifted. The pieces started connecting. Concepts that had been walls became doors. Over a few months, I went from a C/D student to an A student.
My senior year got interesting. Some of my teachers were genuinely puzzled: supportive, even moved by the turnaround. Others weren't so sure. I noticed certain teachers watching me like a hawk during exams, eyes tracking every glance, every pause. I think a few of them were quietly convinced I was cheating. The kid who nearly dropped out doesn't just start acing tests without an explanation, right?
I've got some good stories about those conversations. But I'll save them for another post.
What I'll leave you with is this: the book I picked up to mock my English teacher became the most important thing I've ever read. Not because it taught me how to read, but because it taught me that not understanding something isn't the end of the story. It's the beginning. Years later, I'd carry that same reframing into healthcare, where sarcasm and humor became the best medicine for surviving a broken system—finding absurdity instead of despair, and acknowledging that confusion was actually how I learned to advocate.
And sometimes, learning to ask for help. Stopping the shame of not knowing. That's the most important lesson of all, as I'd eventually document in Permission to Rest: The Invisible Work of Telling Someone They Can Stop.