On what I would refer to as the worst day of my elementary school career, I was in tears, feeling defeated by the loss of the election to be the fourth-grade vice president. I have always desired to work towards the limits of what I could attain, and this was attainable. Until I learned that I had not, in fact, won vice president. My mind raced with negatives about how my classmates perceived me and what this meant for my future. I sulked down to the library, where my small robotics team met for our practices. I was new to the team, and embarrassingly tried to quell my crying before anyone noticed. My robotics coach, Ms. Welch, hawk-eyed as she was, noticed everything, so before I even got a tissue to my eyes, I was interrogated. “What is making you cry?” “The world isn’t ending. You can run for something different next year.” I staggered at the bluntness of her questions and responses. I had never had an adult talk to me so candidly before. Her version of love, or tough love as it would be more accurately described, was on full display. As I struggled to respond to her, she just switched topics, “They need you to show them what you were thinking with building that arm attachment last practice.” My mind swam, the experienced members of the team needed me to help them? I was new, barely had a grasp on the tasks the robot was supposed to complete, and zero technical experience. My idea was just something I had considered briefly, and I wasn’t sure it would even work. I regurgitated my anxieties to her, and while I cannot remember her exact words, I think about the sentiment often: How are you supposed to know if you have potential if you never try? So I tried. I don’t remember the outcome of my idea, but I remember trying. My confidence grew. My willingness to try new things and fail grew, too, but at times, my doubt still remains. I sat at practice in the summer before my senior year of high school, discussing what major I was going to apply to college with. A few times, I had mentioned pursuing environmental engineering, but I had decided against it. I thought engineering would be too difficult. Everyone always talked about what a shock weeder classes were to successful high school students. Ms. Welch stared at me, enamored, “You are not going to be an environmental engineer anymore because you think it might be too hard?” I nodded my head. “Your team has won a world championship, and you thought you weren’t good enough for this team either. You would never be here if you didn’t try.” I thought about trying when I was unsure of every single practice on my robotics team from eight to eighteen years, but it never crossed my mind to apply it elsewhere. It’s funny how our own minds hold us back. As I write this, I am a senior environmental engineering student. I tried, and I succeeded. I thought about pushing aside my dreams of pursuing graduate school for the fear of failure, too. As I pondered over the decision, I remembered these moments in my life and decided it's always best to try. Next year, I will pursue a master’s degree in environmental engineering, working on a research project I was almost too scared to ask about. Ms. Welch taught many things about life, but out of all of them, having confidence in my ability to achieve is my favorite.