The Handwritten Note That Completely Disarmed Me

When I started my Associate’s degree at LDS Business College, I was scared out of my mind. That season of life felt like walking into a storm with no umbrella—raw, exposed, and uncertain. I had just learned I likely had ADHD (it was confirmed later that summer), and I didn’t know what that would mean for my future. My grandpa—my mom’s father—had just passed away. I was devastated. Grief was fresh, my confidence was shattered, and I felt like I was barely holding it together.

During that time, a friend shared a song she had written when she was just 14. It was meant to comfort me—and somehow, it did. Here's the song. Something about the innocence of it, the heart behind it, cracked open a space in me that needed to feel.

Still, walking into those classrooms brought flashbacks. I remembered something my 11th-grade English teacher, Mrs. Douglass, once told our class—right in front of me:

"I told all of my classes how Fernando is an example of what not to be like."
She said that while I was fumbling with index cards for a research paper on insomnia. That moment stuck like a splinter under my skin. So when I started at LDSBC, I was carrying that shame with me.

Out of survival and desperation, I disclosed my fears to my instructors. I was terrified of them. Not because of anything they had done, but because I had internalized this deep fear of being a failure or a burden. But what I found instead was something unexpected: kindness. Genuine, patient, unwavering kindness.

I used to stay up all night pulling panicked all-nighters, sending emails to my professors explaining where I was at with my work. I felt like I was drowning, but I wanted them to know I was trying. One person in particular saved me—Matt Fellows. He was the kindest, most compassionate tutor I’ve ever had. Without him, I don’t think I would’ve made it through my Accounting classes. He didn’t just help me study; he helped me believe in myself.

The next semester, things started to shift. My new roommate was warm, outgoing, and inclusive. He started involving me in everything: mentoring new students, helping teach a class called Foundations of Learning, and even calling me into the improv team. I also started helping lead a club called Play Theory, where we used improv to teach four core principles:

1. Be 100% present

2. Let go and play

3. Say yes

4. Look outward—make your scene partner look good

It was love and connection all around me—but I didn’t know how to receive it. I isolated a lot. I was still buried in overdue assignments, ashamed of my ADHD diagnosis, and haunted by the voice of Mrs. Douglass telling others not to be like me. I’d flunked out of college before. I’d been in a relationship where I felt unseen and unworthy. And now that I had community, I didn’t know how to trust it.

People would say, Why don’t you hang out with your friends more?
But the truth is, I was terrified of being seen. I felt defective.

And yet—the love never stopped. It kept pouring in. And I had no idea what to do with it. I didn’t want anyone to think I was taking their kindness for granted, so I started writing big public thank-you notes on Facebook. It was my way of saying, I see you. I feel you. Thank you for not giving up on me. (That tradition lives on, by the way. Here’s my most recent one from UVU: UVU Spring 2024 Special Thank Yous.)

I couldn’t make sense of what was happening at the time. Matt—my tutor—wasn't just helping me with coursework. He was helping me survive. And then there was the Honor Code officer who oversaw the mentor group. He made me a coordinator because, in his words, he liked the way I made people feel. We still joke around to this day. One of my instructors even kept in touch for years and still reminds me of my potential.

Then came the end of the semester. I turned in a final assignment—a personal learning booklet. It was three days late, and I was mortified. My instructors had been generous with extensions all along, but my fear of disappointing them still had its claws in me.

And then, I opened the front cover and saw a handwritten note:

“Fernando, you put your heart and soul in this booklet. May your kind and loving heart reach out to those around you and be a blessing to them. See page 17 for a thought.”

I flipped to page 17, and he’d written how I could achieve anything I put my mind to.

That note disarmed me. It shattered something hard and cold inside me. For years, I had internalized shame as my identity. But in that moment, I felt something shift—like maybe I wasn’t broken. Maybe I was just carrying too much for too long.

Years later, a professor at the University of South Florida would echo that same truth. He once told me,

“It may be a lot to process what you are carrying, but I promise you: if you work hard, take care of your body, and have the right support, you will make it.”
He encouraged me constantly and reminded me to advocate for myself. That I mattered.

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I still don’t have it all figured out. But I’m starting to see what those professors and mentors saw in me: someone worth believing in.

That handwritten note?
It didn’t just validate me.
It helped me rewrite the narrative.

From “What not to be like”…
to “You can achieve anything.”