“I know” is a sentence I’ve said far too often. I know I’m a strong leader. I know I’m good at engineering physics. I know how to disappear into a character onstage. And for the longest time, I thought I knew how to hit a golf ball. I didn’t want anyone to teach me, I thought I already knew. What I’ve learned instead is the value of patience and the humility it takes to actually learn. I’ve always prided myself on being a fast learner. Whether it’s adapting to a new setting, mastering a piece of music, or solving a math problem, I usually pick things up quickly. But when I joined the golf team, I couldn’t just “pick it up.” My form was off. My swing lacked control. I wasn't hitting the ball cleanly, or sometimes, not at all. And the more I got frustrated that I wasn’t getting it immediately, the harder it became to improve. It didn’t make sense. How could I be so competent in so many areas, but struggle with something that looked so simple? I convinced myself I just wasn’t meant for it. After all, I was a Black girl in a sport not historically designed for me. I used the stereotype as a shield: maybe I wasn’t supposed to be good at golf. And whenever my coaches tried to help, I brushed them off with the same old line—“I know.” If I could self-correct my shotput form, why couldn’t I fix this? I always know what’s best. Right? But toward the end of summer, with our first tournament approaching fast, I finally had to admit something that scared me more than failure: I didn’t know. I didn’t know how to drive the ball more than 30 feet. I didn’t know why my shots were inconsistent. I didn’t know why I refused to ask for help. And most of all, I didn’t know what I was so afraid of in being taught. Once I let go of my ego, everything changed. My coaches stepped in. They showed me how to adjust my stance and grip. They explained how to find rhythm in the swing, how to focus on breathing, how to stay relaxed. I asked questions. I practiced. I learned. And slowly, my swing started to improve. But more importantly, my mindset did. Golf forced me to be uncomfortable. It made me embrace not being the best right away. It taught me that true strength is not in always knowing, it’s in being willing to listen, adapt, and try again. It’s in understanding that growth doesn’t happen in the “I know” moments, but in the “Can you show me again?” ones. As I look toward the future, whether I’m in engineering labs, civic meetings, or leadership roles, I plan to carry this lesson with me. I’ll walk in with confidence, yes, but also with curiosity and openness. I won’t let pride get in the way of progress. I’ll ask questions, seek mentorship, and stay teachable. Because no matter how much I think I know, there’s always room to learn. And the more willing I am to listen, the farther I’ll go, on the course, in the classroom, and in life.