Several months ago, I met a student named “Sophie.” She was taking the MCAT for the fourth time and was applying to medical school soon. Sophie had an especially difficult time with CARS; she had tried every book, every strategy available, but still couldn’t get a handle on the section. Moreover, Sophie had studied for the MCAT for thousands of hours, but still hadn’t seen results. She was lost: she didn’t know what to do or where to go. 

Sophie and I started to work together, meeting a few times every week. Our sessions primarily focused on CARS passages–we’d try to critically-think through questions together, working to develop techniques and strategies that she could apply during her own test. But something felt off. Sophie’s eyes drifted toward her hands whenever she got a question wrong. Her shoulders drooped a little when she wasn’t sure about an answer. Her voice wavered when she explained why she chose an answer.

Slowly, I began to wonder: what if Sophie’s struggles with CARS–or even the MCAT–weren’t entirely related to content knowledge or strategy? What if there was something more to Sophie’s experiences with this test, something that even she wasn’t aware of?

Next tutoring session, I asked Sophie how she was doing. She quickly replied, “Good,” but the quiver in her voice betrayed her feelings. Was Sophie depressed? Anxious? Tired? I wasn’t immediately sure, but I thought I could get Sophie to open up. I began to discuss how I struggled with the MCAT, how I had to re-take the test during a particularly difficult period in my life. I described how alone I felt when I was studying, how I felt as if I let myself down at times. Sophie paused for a moment; she seemed like she was about to say something. But, then, she began to cry.

In our subsequent tutoring sessions, we continued to talk–and not just about the MCAT. There was more to Sophie than her progress with this test. We needed to address how Sophie was doing as a person, not just as an MCAT test-taker. Sophie was a little hesitant to leave the realm of CARS during tutoring sessions; after all, she’d viewed it as her greatest nemesis for so long. But over time, she became more comfortable sharing how she was feeling, what she was thinking. And, I began to understand what had been going on: Sophie had lost self-belief, begun to question her ability to learn and reason without even realizing it.

Answering just one CARS question incorrectly was enough to make Sophie ask: did she even understand the passage? Could she read? Was she ever going to do well on this test? Would she ever go to medical school? Could she become a doctor? Was she ever going to be successful? Was she a failure? 

It took some time, but we were able to help Sophie address her feelings of shame and inadequacy. And, soon, the tone of our tutoring sessions started to shift—I saw a marked difference in Sophie’s ability to explain topics and tackle challenging questions. She seemed to be more aware, more sure of her own capacity to reason through problems. 

Today, Sophie is a success and well on her journey to becoming a physician.