The day that kindness and a chalkboard changed my life.

It was an ordinary afternoon in my junior year in college (Go Rutgers!!) when my mentor, Dr. Eve Sachs, asked me to stop by her office. Eve was one of the coolest Deans, mentors, and humans I had ever met—and her entire EOF team (Hector, Angela, Wally, Kathy, Larry, and James) carried that same mix of brilliance, humor, and heart. During a time when I was trying to figure out who I was—separate from my family, beyond the influences of my neighborhood—that office became a soft place to land.

I walked in that day the same way I had a hundred times before: ready to interrupt someone’s peaceful workday with my silliness. But this time, something was different. Eve took one look at me, smiled, and motioned for me to follow her into a small side room. On the chalkboard was a list of my classes and grades—already written out, already organized, already waiting for me.

On the left: every class where I had earned a C or better.

On the right: every class where I had earned below a C.

It took a moment for my brain to catch up to what my eyes were seeing. And then a longer moment to understand what she was showing me. With the limitations of my high school curriculum, I had carried a narrow definition of myself into college. For the first twelve years of my education, I was a science-and-math kid—A’s and B’s all the way through. I even spent four summers and every Saturday in an engineering-based Upward Bound program. English and History? My sworn enemies.  So when Eve asked me two simple questions, I answered without hesitation:

1. What major do you want to declare?

    Pre‑med, of course. What else would a science-and-math geek choose?

2. What career do you want to pursue?

  Med school, obviously. What else would a science-and-math geek do?

She never told me I couldn’t do those things. She simply asked me to describe what I saw on the board. And there it was … the classes where I was thriving were the ones that celebrated writing, imagination, and creative thinking; and the classes where I was struggling were the ones rooted in science and math.

When I said it out loud, the room went quiet. Eve let the silence stretch—long enough for me to hear my own bewilderment. Then she asked, gently … “What does this tell you about who you are in this version of your academic journey?” 

I had to reach for new language—words I had never used to describe myself. I realized I was no longer the science-and-math girl I had always been. I didn’t enjoy the competitive nature of that path anymore. Somewhere along the way, I had become a writer … a creative. Someone who found pieces of herself in literature—sometimes written by people who looked like me, sometimes by people who didn’t. Someone who loved playing in her imagination and shaping meaning through words.

By simply reflecting back how I was showing up in the world, Eve gave me permission to rethink who I was and who I wanted to become. She helped me reset my compass. Two Literature degrees later—and with a life full of writing projects behind me and ahead of me—I remain deeply grateful for Dr. Eve Sachs, her kindness and that chalkboard. It was the moment I learned that identity isn’t fixed. It evolves. And sometimes all it takes is someone who sees you clearly enough to hand you the chalk.

Who was the person who saw you and handed you some chalk?  How did that moment change you?