Josh J.
Photography by Colleen Charchut
If you’re reading this, you’re allowed to ask for help.
From the beginning of elementary school through the end of high school, I took immense pride in my ability to figure things out on my own. I believed being smart meant not needing help. If you'd asked me why I felt that way, I wouldn’t have had the courage then to share what I can now.
As one of the only Black boys in my advanced classes, I felt the heavy weight of being the sole representation of my community. I constantly feared proving the stereotypes about Black men and intelligence, to the point where asking for help felt like a privilege I didn’t have. When my classmates struggled with a concept, they could turn to each other or the teacher. When I struggled, I felt like I could only turn inward. That mindset carried me through high school—and it worked, at least on the surface. I earned acceptances to some of the nation’s top colleges, and I viewed those acceptances as proof that I could overcome any challenge alone. I believed I was defying the odds and disproving the stereotypes.
But there were only so many challenges I could conquer by myself before I started losing who I was.
At the start of college, I held firm to my belief that I needed to do everything on my own. But it didn’t take long to realize that this approach was no longer sustainable. During my first quarter at Northwestern, I failed multiple quizzes and midterms. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to ask for help. To show a professor or TA those grades felt like confirming every stereotype I had tried so hard to disprove. I told myself I had to fix it by studying harder—doubling down on a method that was already failing me.
Eventually, I hit a wall. I slipped into depression and started questioning my intelligence, even internalizing the very stereotypes I had been running from. I feared I was jeopardizing my dream of becoming a doctor. I knew I needed good grades for medical school, and I realized I had a choice: either let my fear of being seen as “dumb” cost me the future I wanted, or let go of that fear and risk being vulnerable—asking the “dumb” questions, seeking help, admitting I couldn’t do it all alone.
That turning point came at the beginning of my junior year. I finally started reaching out to classmates and professors. I asked questions, even when I didn’t feel smart. I stopped worrying about whether I was disproving stereotypes and started focusing on my own growth. My performance skyrocketed—I began seeing academic results I had never seen before. Even in moments of failure, I no longer saw a reflection of my worth or my community’s worth. I saw a chance to learn. That weight I had been carrying wasn't mine to begin with—it was imposed by a society that profits off our self-doubt.
I thank myself every day for taking a chance on me. And I forgive my younger self for holding onto those beliefs, because he was doing the best he could with what he knew. Today, my grades do not define me or the intelligence of my people. They will not be the reason I’m denied admission to medical school.
So if you’re reading this, know that it’s okay to let go of the stereotypes that have held you hostage. It’s okay to forgive yourself for once believing them. And it’s time to start asking for help—because you deserve to reach your goals, and the real way to disprove those stereotypes is to free yourself from them.
Josh J., Northwestern University
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