She slammed down the pencil. Behind tear-filled eyes she proclaims, We’re done with this. I don’t want to do anymore. Her homework would be turned in late and Mr. Barkdoll would be completely oblivious to the story behind the dried tears that dirtied the paper.

I have always prided myself on my patience. Having successfully tutored many peers in my classes, who needed just a little guidance, I thought my patience meant something. I was wrong. I had no idea what it really meant to be patient. I would soon learn that patience requires extreme empathy. Patience requires an ability to see a situation through another person’s perspective.

Nicole had been a close friend of mine through freshman and sophomore year of high school. In our junior year, we grew ever closer. We spent more time together and began to feel comfortable enough to share sides of our personalities never seen by others. For her, this meant showing me how much she struggled with anxiety and math. These two issues, however unrelated they may seem, when combined, produced an almost insurmountable obstacle. With our new closer friendship came my opportunity to try to alleviate her problems. It would be my patience that would help her through finite math and brief calc, and in effect relax her anxiety. I would save the day. Or so I thought.

Nicole had always tried her hardest at school. Her work ethic was the antithesis of the average high school student’s. Procrastination was not in her vocabulary. She would spend nights studying for tests that were more than a week away. Homework was paramount; her social life took a back seat. Unfortunately, despite her determination, she just could not overcome math. She would tirelessly study and attempt to understand the material only to end up confused again and again. Luckily, I was there to try to assist her in overcoming this problem.

A few months of tutoring passed, and I had helped her improved marginally in her math abilities. One evening, we sat at my dining table, prepping to take down another night’s homework. We were initially optimistic, the air free of tension.

We begin the first problem, I work it through with her slowly, step by step. She feigns understanding. I let her attempt the second problem, and after some obvious struggle on her part, I was forced to walk her through the second problem as well.

I let her try the third problem, resolved that this will be the problem she will actually be able to do some of on her own. Wrong. She stares at the paper, no words come from her mouth. She is afraid to ask again for help when she hasn’t even done a single step. I sigh a sigh of restrained impatience.

Just pivot the rows to get leading ones. I give her instruction but refrain from actually doing the problem.

I don’t know how to do that, she mutters shamefully.

What? What do you mean? I just taught you how to pivot last week. My patience begins to wane.
No… I have never learned this before. We’ve never gone over this. She is also losing patience. Our initial optimism is replaced with frustration. She presses her thumbs into each other, one on top of the other, a sign of anxiety.

I flip through her notebook to specific notes from the lecture, proving that we had already learned it. She has no words. I work another problem for her and let her try again, to no avail. This cycle repeats. Each time I grow a little more impatient, and she feels more and more ashamed for her inabilities. Before I know it, she lashes at me for my growing frustrations.

I don’t want your help anymore. I can do it on my own. A lie. Her thumbs rub harder and harder.
No, we have to do this, the homework is due tomorrow. I insist on continuing.
No. You’re making me feel stupid! We’re done with this. I don’t want to do anymore. The tears begin. The tops of her thumbs are raw, bleeding. Where had my patience gone? I was now the reason she was having a meltdown, all because I couldn’t maintain my composure.

Little did I know at the time that Nicole had a testable and diagnosable problem called dyscalculia, a disorder similar to the well known dyslexia. The difference lying, obviously, in math rather than reading. Because of this, she had always struggled with math. To put the condition into perspective, she was completely unable to memorize her times tables. She just could not. Along the same lines, she was unable to retain math concepts. I would teach Nicole new math concepts that she would understand for the moment like a clear drawing on beach sand. The tide is ceaseless though, and eventually rises to wipe away any trace of the drawing. The sand becomes completely devoid of any definable features, as if it was never touched. Likewise, after a week or so, Nicole would completely forget any math concept.

Many people think that learning is simply something that needs to be worked at and that, if you try hard enough and long enough, you can learn anything. Unfortunately, this is not the universal case. With over six billion people in the world, not everybody has the full capability to learn anything given enough effort. Nicole is an example of this. For many people, learning math is like climbing a rock wall; with enough practice, the nooks and crevasses become ingrained into their memory, and climbing the wall becomes second nature. For Nicole, this rock wall is never the same, its face constantly changes: a new obstacle with every encounter.

What I learned from Nicole is that I really did not have patience. I learned that patience is more than just successfully being able to teach your peers; patience means being able to understand and stand by people. When someone is unable to complete a task, or requires hours of persistent help or training, patience helps us empathize with that someone. We must try to see through others’ eyes.