During my freshman year, I was probably the worst math student in my Algebra II class—I literally had to write (x, y) over (3, 2) so I could figure out which was the x-coordinate.

And my ineptitude at math wasn’t from lack of trying: I devoted hours each night to my homework, but as much as I tried I could not manage an A.

By the end of that year, I knew I was just bad at math, and always would be.

As a freshman, I believed that I was basically my adult self—I looked how I would always look, I thought like I would always think and I felt like I would always feel. I was a mature human being—after all, I was 14.

It wasn’t until one blue-skied day when I was trapped in Mr. Millsback’s AP Calculus AB class last year that I realized how wrong I was back then.

Despite the class’s continued requests to head outside and enjoy one of the few sunny days that dismal spring would grant, Millsback was teaching us how to integrate with U-substitution, one of the more advanced topics we would learn all year.

And, like most of the topics we covered that year, I understood U-substitution pretty much as soon as Millsback finished his explanation.

Yet I realized this was significant only as I jealously stared at the Algebra II class that had been let out a few minutes early to enjoy the sun.

Where I once struggled with the most basic abstract concepts, I was now tackling advanced calculus with relative ease.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that my brain was still maturing.

But it’s not just academic growth—it’s social as well. I don’t think like I used to think, and it’s almost humiliating to see who I used to be.

A week ago, I looked through a Facebook conversation from 2009. Throughout the conversation, I intentionally misspelled words in a way I considered “cool.”

A few of the more glaring examples include “becuz its tight” and “ill tell u 2mz at skoo if u want.”

Three-and-a-half years later, I find people who intentionally misspell their words so obnoxious that I openly mock and refuse to talk to them.

Yet, in March of 2009—the end of my freshman year—I was one of those people.

“You’ve really grown a lot,” a friend told me after reading the conversation.

And I have, but I’m definitely not done.

Comparing freshman Zach to senior Zach made me realize how much I’ve matured in high school, yet it also opened my eyes to the maturing I still have to do.

In college, I’ll reflect on my life in 2012—both on who I was and how I learned—and there’s a good chance college Zach will be disappointed in high-school Zach.

Until then, I’ll just enjoy the ride and my older self can say, “I was young back then.”