Balance the equation:

C₃H₈ + O₂ → CO₂ + H₂O

This was one of the subjects I dreaded the most.

C-H-E-M-I-S-T-R-Y.

Even the name felt like a threat.

It felt like my brain would see the equation, look at me, and say, “My sister, we are not doing this today.”

Then there was Mathematics.

Solve for x:

(2x - 3)/(x + 1) + (x + 4)/(x - 2) = 5
Restriction: x ≠ -1, 2

Why?

Why did I need to know this?

How exactly was this going to help me in life?

Chemistry and Math were, for lack of a better word, my Achilles’ heel. No matter how much I tried, I struggled to understand them. I would sit in class, stare at the board, copy the notes neatly, underline the heading, draw the margin nicely, and still walk out confused.

Was I dumb?

Maybe.

Or perhaps that is what my teenage self concluded.

Because that is what happens when you keep struggling in a subject while others seem to understand it with ease. You start thinking the problem is you.

Not the topic.

Not the teaching method.

Not the language being used.

You.

But looking back now, I realise I had forgotten something important.

Beyond Chemistry and Math, there were subjects where I completely came alive.

English and History.

Give me an essay, a comprehension passage, a historical event, or a story to analyse, and I would thrive. I could score distinctions in both subjects with much more ease than I ever experienced in Math or Chemistry.

So what was different?

Was I suddenly intelligent in English and History, then suddenly unintelligent in Chemistry and Math?

Of course not.

I was the same girl.

The difference was that some subjects spoke a language my brain understood more naturally.

English allowed me to work with words, meaning, expression, and interpretation. History gave me people, events, timelines, consequences, and stories. I could connect ideas. I could remember details because they were attached to human experience.

But Chemistry and Math often felt abstract. Numbers, formulas, equations, symbols, restrictions, reactions- my brain struggled to find a doorway in.

And because I could not find that doorway easily, I almost concluded that I was not smart.

That is the danger.

A teenager can struggle in one area and begin to question their entire intelligence.

I did not say, “I am struggling with Chemistry.”

I said, “Maybe I am dumb.”

I did not say, “Math is difficult for me.”

I wondered, “What is wrong with me?”

And that is where many teenagers get stuck.

They confuse struggle with stupidity.

They confuse difficulty with inability.

They confuse one weak subject with their whole identity.

Looking back, I can now see three things that may prevent us from performing well in different subjects.

The first is that the subject may not be taught in a way we can connect with.

I needed stories. I needed context. I needed meaning. I needed someone to help me see the connection between the formula and real life. When a subject remained abstract, I struggled to hold it.

This does not mean the subject was useless. It simply means I needed a different bridge into it.

Sometimes, a student is not lazy. They just have not been taught in a way that unlocks understanding.

The second thing is fear.

Once I started fearing Math and Chemistry, I approached them already defeated. Before the teacher even finished writing on the board, my mind had packed its bags and left the room.

Fear makes learning harder.

When a teenager believes, “I cannot do this,” they stop engaging with confidence. They are afraid to ask questions. They are afraid to get it wrong. They are afraid of looking foolish. So they keep quiet, copy notes, and hope somehow the topic will disappear.

But subjects do not disappear.

They return in exams with full confidence.

The third thing is the story we attach to our struggle.

My struggle with Math and Chemistry became bigger than performance. It became personal.

I started seeing myself through the lens of what I could not do, instead of also remembering what I could do well.

I forgot that I was strong in English.

I forgot that I was strong in History.

I forgot that I could think, analyse, write, remember, interpret, and express myself.

I forgot that intelligence does not always look like solving for x.

Sometimes, intelligence looks like finding the right words.

Sometimes, it looks like understanding people.

Sometimes, it looks like telling a story.

Sometimes, it looks like leading a conversation.

Sometimes, it looks like creating, designing, singing, organising, questioning, observing, or solving problems in ways that do not fit neatly into an exam paper.

This is why I wish more teenagers understood that there are different kinds of intelligence.

There is linguistic intelligence - the ability to use words well through writing, speaking, reading, storytelling, and communication.

There is logical-mathematical intelligence - the ability to work with numbers, patterns, reasoning, formulas, and problem-solving.

There is spatial intelligence - the ability to think in pictures, design, imagine, draw, build, or visualise things clearly.

There is musical intelligence - the ability to understand rhythm, sound, melody, tone, and musical patterns.

There is bodily-kinesthetic intelligence - the ability to use the body well through movement, sports, dance, drama, craft, or hands-on work.

There is interpersonal intelligence - the ability to understand people, build relationships, lead, listen, influence, and work well with others.

There is intrapersonal intelligence - the ability to understand yourself, reflect deeply, manage emotions, recognise your values, and grow from within.

There is naturalistic intelligence - the ability to understand nature, animals, plants, the environment, and patterns in the natural world.

When I look back at my teenage self, I wish someone had told me:

“Kendi, you may be struggling in Chemistry, but that does not mean you are not intelligent.”

“You may not enjoy Math, but that does not mean your mind is weak.”

“You may not be strong in this area, but do not forget the places where you shine.”

Because the truth is, I was not dumb.

I was discovering my kind of smart.

My intelligence leaned more toward words, stories, communication, reflection, and people. That did not excuse me from trying in Math and Chemistry, but it should have protected me from turning those struggles into an identity.

And that is the lesson I would want every teenager to learn.

Do not let one subject define your entire sense of worth.

Do not let one difficult topic make you conclude that you are incapable.

Do not let one exam result erase the areas where you are gifted.

Yes, work on the subjects that challenge you.

Ask for help.

Practise.

Try again.

Build discipline.

But while you are doing that, also pay attention to where you come alive.

What do you understand easily?

What do people come to you for?

What do you enjoy learning?

What do you explain well?

What problems do you naturally notice?

What kind of work makes you feel useful?

At Coach Ben Africa, we believe every teenager carries something. A strength. A gift. A voice. A way of seeing the world. A form of intelligence that can be developed and used to serve others.

Some teenagers will shine through numbers.

Some through words.

Some through music.

Some through leadership.

Some through creativity.

Some through service.

Some through deep thinking.

Some through building things with their hands.

The goal is not to make every teenager identical.

The goal is to help every teenager discover how they learn, where they struggle, where they shine, and how they can grow.

So yes, Chemistry humbled me.

Math confused me.

But English and History reminded me that I was not empty.

I was not unintelligent.

I was not without ability.

I simply needed to stop asking, “Am I smart?”

And start asking a better question:

Where have I not yet discovered my kind of smart?