Her eyes burned from hours of staring at the laptop screen, a dull ache pulsing behind her temples — part headache, part frustration from memorizing endless drug names. The library was silent, the kind of silence that hummed against her ears. Empty chairs stood like quiet witnesses to her exhaustion. A few years ago, she had imagined university differently — laughter, freedom, a future within reach. Instead, she sat in a dim corner at midnight, fueled by caffeine and desperation, fighting to keep up.

Lerato had always been hardworking, but this year was different. After failing three modules the previous year, she carried them into third year — something she never thought possible. Each day felt like survival; each night, another climb up a mountain that only grew steeper. When she returned to campus, she promised herself a fresh start: strict schedules, late nights, no excuses. But the struggle ahead would demand more than effort — it would test her spirit.

Days bled into weeks of exhaustion and doubt. Assignments piled up, emotions weighed her down, yet she kept going. Quitting wasn't in her nature. She had gone all in, even if it meant breaking along the way. Leaning back in her chair, Lerato rubbed her eyes, her coffee long gone cold. Maybe a walk would help. Outside, the campus was silent — the kind of quiet that makes your thoughts louder. As she stepped into the night, she couldn't help but think back to when everything still felt possible.

Tears filled Lerato's eyes. She didn't know what to do anymore. The weight of it all felt unbearable. For a moment, she thought about asking her lecturers to split the modules, anything to make it easier, but she knew there was no escape. Three failed modules, each demanding attention, stacked atop her third-year work. How am I going to survive? Every year, she failed something. Worse, she hated what she was studying. It felt like the world was against her. She broke down completely, her mother's words echoing faintly: "If God opened this door, it means you can walk through it." But it didn't feel like faith — it felt like abandonment.

Back at campus, hope carried Lerato through the first weeks, until March came. Classes clashed, deadlines blurred, and exhaustion returned. When she sought help, one lecturer's cold words stayed with her: "It's not our problem you failed." The silence that followed was heavier than any workload. Still, she had good friends, people who tried to keep her afloat, reminding her to show up, to celebrate small victories. But as her workload grew, her spirit began to collapse. Her mind dimmed, her body followed. Skipped meals, sleepless nights, trembling hands. Yet she pushed, beyond exhaustion, beyond reason.

She became withdrawn, her mind darkening with every passing day. Nights ended in tears; mornings began with dread. Her body followed her mind's decline, meals skipped, weight lost, eyes shadowed by fatigue. Yet she pushed harder, convinced quitting wasn't an option. It became a cruel cycle: stress draining her strength, weakness feeding more stress. Then came the week that broke her, three tests, endless pressure, and the sinking realization that maybe faith alone wasn't enough to keep her standing. "How am I going to survive this?" she whispered to herself, her hands trembling over her notes. "On top of that, I still have to attend my regular classes?"All hope began to crumble, but giving up still wasn't in her nature. So, she pushed herself harder than ever, to a point beyond exhaustion, beyond reason.

When she sat for FSG, it was as if her brain had betrayed her, waiting for her outside the exam venue while her body went through the motions inside. During SLK, all those sleepless nights felt suddenly meaningless, the words on the paper blurring before her tired eyes. By the time Pharmacology came around, she was completely spent, physically, mentally, emotionally. She had nothing left to give.

That night, after writing Pharmacology, was the worst. The silence of her room felt suffocating. Her thoughts were loud and cruel, whispering that maybe she wasn't cut out for this, that maybe it was time to stop fighting. She had reached her lowest point.
 She lay on her bed staring at the ceiling, feeling empty — too tired to cry, too tired to think. The world felt quiet, almost too quiet, and for the first time, she began to wonder if the fight was even worth it anymore.

A thought crossed her mind, a dark, dangerous whisper that promised escape. It scared her, yet it lingered, wrapping around her thoughts like smoke. Everything inside her felt unbearably heavy: her heart, her failures, her future. She wanted the pain to stop — just for a moment, just to breathe without the weight pressing down on her chest. She overdosed...The numbness crept in slowly, until she couldn't tell if she was feeling anything at all.

"Maybe this will stop the pain," she thought. "I'm so tired of fighting a battle I keep losing. I'm tired... I can't do this anymore.

For a moment, Lerato thought it was over — the storm finally quiet. She closed her eyes, ready to leave the earth. But God had other plans. When she woke the next morning, sunlight spilled weakly through her curtains. She lay still, stunned that her heart was still beating. Then the tears came — not of pain, but of relief. She wept for the girl who wanted to give up and for the one who had survived.

Therapy felt hollow, friends didn't understand, and even her mother's silence over the phone broke her further. Then came the final blow — she hadn't qualified to write FSG. Failure drowned out every small victory.

She shut the world out — no classes, no studying, just silence. Until one day, she checked her results. Every other module — even Pharmacology — she'd qualified for exams.

For the first time in months, hope flickered. Fragile, but alive. She wiped her tears, sat up, and whispered, "I can still try."

And this time, she would.

Lerato remembered her mother's words:
 "God doesn't put mountains we can't climb. When fear whispers, let faith shout louder."
 Those words steadied her. She studied harder than ever, surviving sleepless nights and near-breakdowns. Even failing one module couldn't erase her progress, but it broke her spirit.

She went to church, her faith bruised but alive. When the choir sang, her walls finally fell. "Why me, God?" she cried. "When will it get better?" Yet in that moment of surrender, peace found her — quiet, steady, real.

Returning to campus, Lerato chose grace over resentment. She stopped comparing herself, began pacing her effort, and learned to be kinder to herself.

Lerato knew the road ahead wouldn't be easy, there would still be long nights, tough exams, and moments of doubt. But she had faced darkness before and came out stronger. She had learned to trust herself, lean on her faith, and meet each challenge with patience and grace. Most of all, she'd learned kindness — to forgive her mistakes, celebrate small victories, and accept that progress was never perfect.

This was her moment to go all in — not just in her studies, but in life itself. To give her best, embrace the struggle, and honor her growth. She had survived, she had changed, and she had found something greater than fear: the courage to keep going, believing, and living — fully and fiercely, with faith as her guide and kindness as her companion.

And so, with quiet determination, Lerato returned to the library, ready to keep fighting for her future.