The instructions were clear.
Don’t leave your computer station for any reason. If you get to a break in the proceedings and need to stretch your legs or use the restroom, raise your hand. A test proctor will see it and head your way. Then they’ll escort you to where you need to go.
Such were the rules of standardized test centers. Elaborate cheating schemes needed to be stamped out aggressively. I understood that.
But as I sat down to take the GMAT, those rules were hardly of significance. For I was prepared.
I’d completed some practice exams. I’d gotten a good night’s sleep. I’d drank a lot of water, just like my prep course instructor told me to.
I had everything I needed to excel. Or so I thought.
As I neared the end of the exam’s second section, I was struck with a familiar sensation. My bladder suddenly felt as heavy as a boulder. I would need to relieve myself in short order.
Fortunately, a scheduled break was coming up. And those familiar instructions were still fresh in my mind.
So, when the break arrived, I raised my hand and waited patiently. But no help arrived.
I turned my head to the testing center surveillance booth, encased in glass. A proctor was sitting in there, mindlessly checking her smartphone. She was twenty feet and a world away.
The timer on my computer kept ticking down. By now half of the break had expired. Even if I did get the proctor’s attention, I wouldn’t be able to get to the restroom and back in time.
So, I audibled. I clicked the End Break button and got started on the next section of the exam.
That section was the quantitative one – a hybrid of math and logic. I struggled with these types of test questions under normal conditions. And now, with my body under siege, I was in dire straits.
This situation drained my focus, strained my memory, and left me with little time to deliberate between possible answers. So, I powered through as quickly as I could, submitting answers off first instinct.
Mercifully, I reached another break. I raised my hand again – and once again my gesture was met with no response.
Desperate, I walked over to the booth and tapped on the glass. When the proctor looked up, I mouthed the words Bathroom Break. A moment later, I was on the way to my salvation.
But the damage had been done. My GMAT results were subpar – especially in the quantitative section. I had wasted a day off work for this result, and now my business school prospects had dimmed.
I was mad. Mad at the proctor for her failure to acknowledge me in my time of need. Mad at myself for drinking all that water beforehand. Mad at all of it.
It didn’t really matter who I was angry at, I told myself at the time. But that was far from the truth.
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.
So goes The Serenity Prayer – my favorite bit of scripture.
Those 27 words have long had an association with Alcoholics Anonymous. By sheer coincidence, I quit the bottle some years ago. Which has left some to label my affinity for these words as a cry for help.
It’s not.
Truth be told, you don’t need to be afflicted with anything for these words to have meaning. All of us can find some solace in them.
You see, we’re tested day in and day out. Not necessarily on a 100-point scale like those school exams. Or on a pass-fail grade like an engine diagnostic. But more in the form of stimulus-response.
The universe is continually in flux, and we feel the impacts in our tiny corner of it. Things happen to us – good, bad, or a mix of both – and we’re forced to respond to them.
That response is all too often predicated on control. On optimizing the outcome, on limiting the fallout, and on preparing ourselves for greater success moving forward. This is particularly true then the test in question leaves poor marks on our ledger, or a bad taste in our mouth.
We’re inclined to lament the entirety of the incident – both the obstacles thrown in our midst and our erroneous moves that dug us in deeper. And we’re determined to engineer both out of the equation next time around.
The Serenity Prayer stops us in our tracks.
It reminds us that much is beyond our grasp. And that any efforts to reel in the unreachable amount to wasted energy.
If I were following the Serenity Prayer in the wake of my GMAT fiasco, I’d have known better than to let my anger over the test proctor’s inaction linger. Her dereliction of duty was wrong, no doubt. But it was firmly beyond my control.
In fact, the proctor’s negligence was only an issue because I consumed more water than my body could handle. That decision was firmly under my control. And while it was well-intentioned, it backfired spectacularly.
I would need the courage to change course the next time around. Even without the Serenity Prayer on my mind back then, I recognized that. And on my next go at the GMAT, I did change my approach.
Less water. No bathroom breaks. And results that ultimately helped me earn business school admission.
What’s your next move?
This is often the reply I get when I share how things are going in my life. Particularly if the news is less than rosy.
It’s understandable.
We’re a fix-it society. A culture full of pluck and innovation.
Anything wrong can be righted. Any challenge can be put behind us.
Except, not all of them can.
Indeed, there a great many obstacles for which there is no easy fix. Where the scars linger and the mess proliferates.
These occurrences could be as basic as my GMAT experience. Or they could be more substantial – such as a catastrophic situation at work or the revelation of some grim medical news.
Regardless, our first step should not be to put on our superhero cape. Our first step should be to triage. To accept the things we cannot change before summoning the courage to fix that which we can.
Serenity matters more than we care to admit. Let’s give it the respect it deserves.
We’ll be better for it.