Not being the best but touching the limits of your ability. This belief came from my third grade teacher, the most trusted and loved person in my life. Mr. Myrus was always perfectly dressed and spoke with the conviction   that talking to small kids didn't mean that he had to sacrifice proper pronunciation or grammar. And he was demanding. Oh, he wasn't unreasonable or cruel; he simply felt that no matter what your best was, you should achieve it. As luck would have it, I met him again as my eighth grade math teacher. I was not, nor ever will be, gifted in math. And thirteen-year-old girls do not have the energy to devote to something like square roots  . I remember our struggles, "I don't know the answer. I can't do it.!" "Perhaps you don't know the answer," he would say quietly. "Do you think we might figure it out together? How do you know what you can do until you try?" Mr. Myrus lived around the corner, and I would often stop by to talk while he worked in his wood shop. In this room of sawdust, wood chips, and the smoke from the woodburning stove, I felt respected and valued as a person. I knew there was someone who liked me for who I was, someone who, while he always wanted me to do my best, let me know that if I had really tried, that was enough. Mr. Myrus was my teacher and my friend. He taught me to be kind. He taught me my own value. He taught me about honor, about truth, and about doing my best--and that all feelings and beliefs have dignity and deserve respect. And of all the things I know, this I believe: We can't all be "the" best, but we can, each of us, be our best, and I know that's true because Mr. Myrus told me. How did the author feel when she began studying math at thirteen?
She was devoted to math. Math was difficult to learn. She could improve her math soon. The math teacher was unreasonable.