Studying at university as an ESL student

When I received an A– on a college paper, I scheduled a meeting with my teaching assistant to discuss how I could improve. I wasn’t upset about the grade. I genuinely wanted to know what separated an A– paper from an A paper.

After listening to my questions, she smiled and reassured me.

“As someone who speaks English as a second language,” she said, “this is already an impressive paper. You should be very proud of yourself!”

She meant it as encouragement. Her tone was warm, her kindness unmistakable. But I walked away feeling strangely defeated.

What I heard was not praise. What I heard was that an A might simply be out of reach for someone like me. That conversation was the first time I became aware of a pattern that would emerge throughout my journey of higher education.

When I decided to major in French, some friends questioned that decision. I had never taken a French course before arriving at university, and now I was attempting to learn a third language (French) using my second language (English). Later, when I decided to apply to law school, I received similar advice. Law, after all, is built on reading and writing. Was I not setting myself up for failure by competing against native English speakers in their native language?

The alternatives people suggested were always practical and well intentioned. Mathematics. Business. Computer science. Fields where language was less central and where, in their minds, I might have a more level playing field.

There was nothing wrong with those suggestions. The problem was that they assumed my ambitions and interests should be adjusted to accommodate my linguistic background as a non-native English speaker.

The irony is equally that many of these comments came from people who genuinely admired what I had accomplished. They were trying to be supportive. They wanted me to be kinder to myself.

For a long time, I did not know how to respond to their comments. I usually smiled, thanked them and changed the subject. Over time, I began to view these comments differently. I learned to treat such remarks less as predictions about what I could achieve and more as reflections of what others thought was possible. These moments clarified how important my goals were to me and motivated me to become an example that challenges other people’s assumptions and expectations.

Attending higher education in a second language can be difficult. Writing academic papers in that language can be challenging. Building a career around it can feel almost irrational. Yet the acknowledgement of a path’s difficulty does not mean that one should not embark on it.

I have never wanted special expectations. I only want the opportunity to pursue the things that interest me most. Those interests happen to be languages, philosophy, literature, film, and subsequently law.

Years later, in my first year of law school, I received a B in Torts. While complaining about the grade to a friend, I heard a familiar response.

“With the curve, a B means you’re doing better than almost half the class. And English isn’t your first language. You should be happy.”

Again, the comment was meant to comfort me. But it landed differently.

What bothered me was not the observation itself. What bothered me was the assumption hidden beneath the observation: that what is possible to be achieved would somehow be different for me.

Whenever I struggled, people often saw the language problem first.

What they did not see were the countless factors unrelated to language that contribute to the achievement of an academic goal: the quality of a thesis, the structure of an essay, the discipline required to master a difficult subject, and the necessity to improve through practice.

What they also did not see was the amount of work that went into closing the gap. The frequent visits to the writing centre and professors’ office hours, the extra time I put in because I read and wrote more slowly, the list of unfamiliar words I kept, and the countless French films I watched to improve my oral comprehension skills. In law school, I outlined cases repeatedly, practised one hypothesis after another, sought feedback whenever I could, not leaving any confusion I had unresolved. 

I treated writing as a skill that could be improved rather than a talent one either possessed or lacked. None of my studying habits eliminated the challenges of working in a second language. They simply reminded me that progress required persistence and hard work. 

Today, I have a French degree, a law degree, and a career ahead of me that depends almost entirely on language.

As I prepare to enter the workforce, I think about the millions of international students who travel to study abroad every year. Would they pursue their passion, if their passion was reliant on languages that are not their first one? Would the educators they work with respect their ambition and help them navigate studying in their second language? Would their language skills be regarded as potential rather than a glass ceiling?

My hope is not that people stop recognising the challenges non-native English speakers need to overcome to learn and work in a second language.

My hope is that we become more careful about the assumptions that accompany that recognition.

Instead of asking whether a goal is realistic, we might ask what resources, strategies or opportunities would help them achieve it.

The most helpful mentors in my life were not the ones who reminded me how difficult the path would be. They were the ones who assumed that I belonged on it and helped me figure out how to move forward.