The Unstudied LSAT – A Personal Dive into Raw Logic and Spontaneous Genius

It was early September when a spontaneous decision took root, one born not of ambition, not of planning, but of raw curiosity. The Law School Admission Test, known in academic circles as the LSAT, loomed ahead on the calendar, but I hadn’t spent a single minute preparing for it. Not one practice question. Not a glance at the structure. I didn’t even fully understand what the exam covered. Yet, something inside me whispered that perhaps I didn’t need to study at all. What if my mind, with no formal review, could still cut through the maze of logic puzzles and critical reasoning?

At the heart of this decision was a half-serious belief: maybe somewhere within me was a hidden genius, some unmined intellectual terrain that could handle a graduate admissions test based solely on instinct. I’d watched enough documentaries and read enough profiles about geniuses to believe I might share some of their quirks — aversion to tags on shirts, strange food habits, unease with eye contact. These minor oddities became, in my mind, possible signs of hidden brilliance. All I needed was a proving ground.

Then came the dinner party where a brilliant friend, recently between jobs, announced he would be dedicating four full months to LSAT preparation. He intended to treat studying like a job. I asked him what I thought was a perfectly valid question: do you have to memorize the Constitution for the test? He laughed and said no, the exam was more about logic, reading, and reasoning. That response lit a spark. If it didn’t test law or history, just thinking, then why couldn’t I take it cold?

He told me I would likely fail. That studying wasn’t just smart, it was essential. He even warned me the test cost nearly two hundred dollars, and doing it without preparing would be a waste. But the idea kept bouncing around in my head. What if I could walk into the exam room and, with zero preparation, crush it? Could law school be my hidden calling?

The idea of becoming a lawyer had never truly appealed to me, but the possibility that I could enter that world with little effort did. I imagined the prestige, the steady income, the clarity of a legal career. So I registered for the LSAT without a moment of research. The test site was a college campus, the registration process was thick with bureaucracy, and the emails that followed were peppered with firm instructions.

The logistics alone felt like a test. I had to upload a headshot — clear, recent, and distinctly different from my ID photo. I had to carry everything in a single clear plastic bag, down to my pencils and juice box. Every item was regulated. The tone of the instructions suggested that failure to meet any requirement could mean being barred from the test room altogether. My anxiety wasn’t about the test content at this point—it was about whether I’d be allowed through the door.

The night before the exam, I stayed on-brand and refused to adopt any specific routine. No flashcards, no sample tests, not even a quiet evening of rest. Instead, I joined a friend for drinks and conversation on a stoop. As the evening wore on, I knew I was probably the only person sitting for the LSAT in the morning who had a bottle in hand and no study guide in sight.

When I arrived at the test site, it felt more like airport security than a college exam. I was directed to a waiting area filled with silence and anxiety. Our proctor introduced himself in a booming voice, making repeated announcements about the rules. The volume of regulation seemed to surprise everyone. Items were confiscated, students scolded, and some even removed for failing to follow minor guidelines. Phones, wrong IDs, even chapstick in the wrong place could trigger disciplinary action. It was all tightly controlled, and I realized with mild alarm that I may have underestimated just how rule-bound this process would be.

I looked around at the other test-takers. Most seemed younger, sharply dressed, and deeply focused. Their faces reflected months of preparation. Many held highlighters and sharpened pencils with the reverence of monks holding sacred tools. I was the anomaly — taller, older, and probably the only one who wasn’t staking their future on this performance.

Despite the stern reminders, the tension, and the sealed Ziploc bags, I walked into the exam room with an unusual sense of calm. I signed the mandatory form swearing that my intention was to apply to law school. I wasn’t sure if that was entirely true, but I didn’t want to risk being removed for hesitating. Once the first section landed on my desk, everything became silent and immediate.

The first part was reading comprehension — legal-sounding and academic paragraphs with follow-up questions. Strangely, it felt natural. The questions made sense. Choose the statement that best weakens the argument. Pick the most logical conclusion. Identify the author’s assumption. It was, in some ways, like reading online think pieces and dissecting the logic. I was surprised to find that my years of consuming digital content, long-form journalism, and debate threads had primed me well for this segment.

I moved from question to question without panic, marking a few I wasn’t sure about, but mostly feeling sharp and responsive. This wasn’t abstract math or obscure legal codes, it was reasoning. And reasoning, for the most part, was something I had always relied on instinctively. As I completed the section, I allowed myself to feel just a bit proud. Maybe I was actually doing okay.

Then came the second section, and with it, an entirely different beast. This was what test-takers often dread — the logic games. I had no clue what I was looking at. The section presented what appeared to be puzzles: colored items, scheduled appointments, seating arrangements, and rules that created multiple constraints. A wrong move in the early stages would mean cascading errors throughout. It was like building a house of cards blindfolded.

Each question seemed to require a flowchart or grid, and I hadn’t brought any sort of strategy into the room. The first logic game took me nearly ten minutes to piece together. Panic set in as I realized I had only twenty-five minutes left to finish the rest. I guessed through several questions toward the end, unsure of their logic or traps.

It was humbling. My vision of discovering effortless genius in the LSAT’s framework took a direct hit. I knew there would be areas of challenge, but I didn’t expect to feel so unprepared. Still, I reminded myself that this was an experiment. Not a career-defining move. Not a personal failure. Just a way to see how natural reasoning fared in a high-stakes environment.

As we left the room for the scheduled break, I stretched my cramping hand and looked around at the other test-takers. Most were quiet, some were pacing, others stared into space, trying to recover from whatever section they had just faced. One guy did push-ups in the hallway. Another clutched a stress ball. We all looked like we had just emerged from battle, but I couldn’t help smiling. I hadn’t studied, hadn’t prepped, hadn’t followed the structured path and yet, here I was, still standing.

After the break, the remaining sections mirrored the first more reading, more reasoning, and less confusion. I found a rhythm again and began answering with a level of comfort. These parts didn’t require flowcharts or visual games. They required critical thinking, attention to detail, and awareness of how arguments work. I could do that. I had done it all my life.

When the writing sample began, I was already exhausted. It was a simple essay, a choice between two options with reasons to defend one. But the twist? It wouldn’t be graded. I approached it with some effort, knowing it might be read by admissions committees, but I wasn’t overly invested. The pressure had already passed.

I stepped outside after the test, squinting into the bright afternoon sun. My back hurt. My fingers ached. But I felt stimulated. I didn’t have a perfect performance, but neither had I bombed. One section had shaken me, but the rest felt strangely doable. Could it be possible I had scored in a respectable range?

In the weeks that followed, I began to doubt myself. I wondered if my confidence was misplaced. Maybe the LSAT was full of traps. Maybe my answers had been lured by deceptive choices. Still, I remained hopeful. I had not gone in to win a place at a top-tier school. I had gone in to explore. To test a theory. To see what raw intellect, divorced from prep books and coaching, could achieve.

The Waiting Game, the Doubts, and the Real Question Behind the LSAT

Leaving the LSAT testing center that warm afternoon brought with it a strange mix of exhaustion and adrenaline. I was both drained and wired, confused by how something so monotonously structured could leave me feeling exhilarated. The exam hadn’t gone perfectly, not by a long shot. But I had also not crumbled. For someone who took it with no preparation, who wandered into that room with no expectations except curiosity, that mattered.

I had read dense paragraphs, followed structured arguments, eliminated answer choices using instinct instead of rules, and worked my way through most of the logic puzzles. Yes, the logic games had crushed me, but the rest felt oddly manageable. That alone planted a small seed of hope.

As I exited the building, my thoughts drifted between self-congratulation and growing insecurity. I had done something bold, but had I also been reckless? The stakes weren’t high in the conventional sense. I hadn’t staked my future on the outcome. But even so, I began to crave a positive result, something to validate the idea that my untrained mind could navigate a professional gateway designed to measure elite reasoning.

The LSAT results wouldn’t arrive for a month, and that month passed in a haze of introspection, second-guessing, and quiet anticipation. I replayed sections of the exam in my head, especially the logic games. I tried to remember how I had reasoned through questions, how long I had spent circling back to the same flawed logic traps. Did I waste too much time on the first few and leave too many unanswered? Did I fall for common bait choices designed to catch overconfident test-takers?

What nagged at me most was the idea that this test had somehow exposed a gap between the kind of intelligence I believed I had and the kind that institutions respect. In daily life, I was quick-witted, adaptable, thoughtful in conversations. People often said I was smart. But this was different. This was institutional intelligence—the kind that’s scored, filed, compared, and judged. Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure I had it.

I kept the experiment mostly to myself at first, unsure how it would be received. But when I did share it, reactions were mixed. Some friends were impressed. They saw it as a bold and playful experiment in self-discovery. Others were less kind. A few who had studied for months viewed my approach as a kind of arrogance. One even said, with more disappointment than judgment, that it sounded like I was disrespecting something they had taken seriously for years.

That stuck with me. Because as much as I had framed my test-taking as an experiment, there was truth in the idea that I had underestimated not just the test, but the people who take it seriously. What had started as a lighthearted curiosity began to feel like something more complicated—a brush with a system that people enter to change their lives, to build careers, to fight for justice or security or opportunity. And I had walked in and out like it was a riddle in a magazine.

That realization didn’t necessarily bring regret, but it did bring humility. As I read more about the LSAT in the following weeks, I began to understand the test in a new light. It wasn’t a trivia contest or a knowledge-based evaluation. It was a carefully engineered assessment, rooted in psychometrics and refined over decades. Every question was the result of countless hours of research, testing, and review. The LSAT wasn’t a perfect test, but it was far more deliberate than I had given it credit for.

It also wasn’t random. The test-makers didn’t create the exam to trick people. They built it to measure core abilities that lawyers use every day—logical reasoning, reading precision, analytical structure. There was a reason the test had remained largely unchanged for so long. Law schools depended on it not just as a filter, but as a predictor.

And yet, despite all this clarity, the question still nagged at me. What exactly was the LSAT measuring? Was it measuring intelligence? Dedication? Test-taking strategy? Cultural capital?

As the weeks passed, my feelings about the test evolved. I began to see it less as a gatekeeper and more as a mirror. A mirror not only of what I could do under pressure, but of what I had taken for granted. That I could reason quickly didn’t mean I could do so under the constraints of a game-like structure. That I could read critically didn’t mean I could diagram a logic grid in less than five minutes.

I started speaking to people who had prepared for the LSAT in earnest. One person told me about the hours she had spent every week for six months working through prep books and taking practice tests. Another mentioned how he paid for an expensive course that promised to boost scores by ten points. They didn’t talk about the test like it was a formality—they talked about it like it was a hurdle they had to conquer. It was their entry point into a new world.

It struck me then that my approach, while novel, had also missed something fundamental. I had assumed that natural reasoning was enough. But natural ability, I was learning, is just one part of a larger picture. The LSAT didn’t just reward smarts. It rewarded discipline. It rewarded practice. It rewarded those who understood the format, who studied the blueprint, who knew how to think within the rules of the game.

When I finally got the email saying my score was ready, my heart raced. For a test I hadn’t cared about a month earlier, I now desperately wanted a result that proved I belonged. I opened the page and scrolled down to see the number: 158.

There was a strange rush of feelings—relief, pride, and yes, disappointment. A 158 was solid. It placed me in the ballpark of many mid-tier law schools. It was well above average but well below elite. It wasn’t failure, but it wasn’t brilliance either. It was respectable. It was, perhaps, what I deserved.

Part of me wanted to celebrate. I had taken one of the most difficult graduate admissions exams without any preparation and walked away with a decent score. That meant something. Another part of me wondered if I had just proven the limits of raw intellect. If I had studied—really studied—could I have broken into the 160s or even the 170s?

That thought stuck with me. Not because I was obsessed with law school, but because the test had revealed something about effort. That no matter how clever I might think I am, there is a structure to high achievement. And that structure often involves repetition, discipline, and humility.

I shared my score with a few friends, and reactions ranged from impressed to indifferent. Those who had studied seemed slightly vindicated. “See?” one of them said. “You did okay, but not great. You needed to prep.”

He was right. But he also wasn’t entirely right. Because in that number—158—was something more meaningful to me than a future in law. It was a lesson in limitations. It was a lesson in what talent can do and what talent alone cannot do. And perhaps, most importantly, it was a lesson in curiosity.

The LSAT, for all its mechanical rigidity, had reminded me of what it feels like to be tested. Not metaphorically, but literally. It had put me in a position of discomfort and forced me to stretch, to guess, to fail and keep going. It had reminded me of what it means to sit at a desk and wonder if your answers will be good enough.

That, in itself, was worth the price of admission.

But beyond the personal insights, the experience also forced me to think about who the LSAT serves. It is marketed as a fair and objective test, but fairness often depends on context. For people with time, resources, and access to preparation, the LSAT is beatable. For those without, it becomes another barrier. Intelligence isn’t distributed unequally, but opportunities often are.

So what does it mean to succeed on the LSAT? Does it mean you are ready for law school? Maybe. Or maybe it means you understand how to think in the way the test demands. Either way, it reflects more than just mental agility. It reflects preparation, access, and familiarity with the rules of a very specific game.

As I sat with all these thoughts, I wondered whether law school had ever really been the point. I had started this experiment chasing the idea that I might be a hidden prodigy. That I could stumble into a new identity with nothing but natural ability. But the truth is, genius without direction is just noise. It’s the quiet application of effort that creates momentum.

And maybe, in the end, that’s what the LSAT teaches most clearly. That intellect alone is never enough. That intention matters. That anyone can take the test, but only those who prepare on purpose will truly master it.

Logic, Prestige, and Gatekeeping — How the LSAT Shapes Who Gets In

Standardized testing is often described as a fair playing field, a meritocratic tool that sorts talent from the crowd and paves the way toward elite institutions and lucrative careers. At face value, the LSAT is one of the clearest examples of that philosophy. Its questions are stripped of subjectivity. It doesn’t test history or civics. It does not ask for opinions. It asks, simply, whether you can think.

But as I sat in the afterglow of my raw, unprepared 158, I began to realize that the LSAT doesn’t just measure logic—it shapes it. It doesn’t just reflect ability—it defines whose ability counts. In this part of the journey, I found myself shifting away from questions about my own performance and toward larger questions about what tests like the LSAT are actually doing in society. Who gets filtered in? Who gets filtered out? And what happens when access to logic becomes a form of privilege?

The more I reflected on the experience, the more I saw how the LSAT had served as a kind of mirror—not just of my own abilities but of a system that has grown to reflect deeply embedded social assumptions. On its surface, the LSAT claims neutrality. The test is multiple choice. It is carefully designed by psychometricians. Its answers are either right or wrong, justified by internal logic. There is no room for personal bias, at least not within the test itself.

And yet, as with all things that claim to be neutral, the surrounding structures are not.

I began to think about the people I saw in the testing room. They had arrived early, clutching highlighters and sharpened pencils, their plastic bags full of erasers and identification cards. They looked sharp, serious, and above all, prepared. I was the outlier, the one who had walked in without months of preparation or coaching. And while I didn’t do terribly, I also didn’t do extraordinarily. I walked in with only instinct, and instinct alone was not enough to crack the higher reaches of the scoring system.

That realization made me reflect on preparation itself. Who has the time, money, and guidance to dedicate months to mastering a test like this? Who gets to hire tutors, enroll in prep courses, take dozens of practice exams, and slowly learn the peculiar internal grammar of LSAT logic games?

In theory, anyone can learn these skills. In practice, access is uneven. The test may be multiple-choice, but the road to mastering it is paved with opportunity—opportunity that often hinges on background, education, and economic stability.

Even something as basic as time is a luxury. A person working two jobs to support a family may want to enter law school, may have the natural aptitude to excel, but simply does not have the bandwidth to spend three months preparing for a standardized test. Meanwhile, others with flexible schedules, academic mentors, or financial safety nets are free to treat LSAT prep as a full-time occupation.

This disparity creates a strange paradox. The LSAT does not test knowledge of the law, nor does it test writing skill or emotional intelligence. Instead, it tests abstraction. It tests pattern recognition, deductive reasoning, and linguistic precision. And yet, these are precisely the kinds of skills that can be sharpened not just through natural ability, but through exposure—exposure to books, debate, critical thinking, and structured academic environments.

In short, the LSAT may claim to test raw potential, but it often rewards polished preparation.

This raises an uncomfortable question: if the legal system is meant to serve the public equitably, why is entry into it controlled by a gate that disproportionately favors the already advantaged?

And then there’s the matter of what the LSAT leaves out. I began to wonder, as I reflected on the test’s structure, whether the most important qualities of a future lawyer were actually being measured. Nowhere in the test was there any assessment of ethical judgment. There were no questions about emotional intelligence, negotiation, compassion, or the ability to translate complex rules into human terms. These are the traits that define great lawyers. And yet, none of them are evaluated.

To be fair, the test was never designed to evaluate those things. It exists as a narrow assessment tool to predict first-year performance in law school. It focuses on analytical reasoning, logical structure, and reading comprehension because those are the skills most law schools rely on in their curriculum.

Still, it struck me as odd that such a narrow range of abilities should act as the primary key to a profession that touches almost every part of public and private life. A good score on the LSAT says that you can follow instructions, make deductions, and spot inconsistencies. But it says nothing about how you will handle the ethical gray areas of legal work, or how you’ll stand up in a courtroom, or whether you’ll have the stamina to sort through hundreds of documents without losing focus.

This made me think more critically about the idea of meritocracy itself. We often say that standardized tests promote fairness because everyone takes the same exam. But fairness in design is not fairness in outcome. The tools used to prepare for success are not evenly distributed, and neither are the cultural norms that teach people how to approach problems in a test-friendly way.

Even something as basic as being comfortable with standardized tests can be a form of privilege. Those who attend schools where testing is frequent and emphasized are more likely to understand the tricks and patterns of multiple-choice logic. They are taught how to eliminate answers, how to pace themselves, how to recognize when a question is setting a trap. These aren’t innate skills—they are learned behaviors shaped by environment.

Which brought me back to my own performance. A 158 was not terrible. But it wasn’t exceptional either. And yet, that result was generated without preparation. No courses. No practice exams. No tutors. Just me, a few pencils, and whatever brainpower I happened to bring that day. The experience had been raw, almost primal in its simplicity.

But was it fair to even compare myself to those who had studied? On one hand, yes—I had taken the same test, followed the same rules, and received a score generated by the same algorithm. On the other hand, I had bypassed the ritual. I hadn’t treated the test with the seriousness it usually commands. And in doing so, I had revealed how much the test is not just about thinking—but about preparing to think in a very specific way.

I began to see standardized tests like the LSAT not just as evaluators but as cultural filters. They don’t just ask you to think. They ask you to think in a particular mode—a legalistic mode, where precision trumps creativity and speed outruns nuance. They reward compliance with form, not deviation from it. The best test-takers are not necessarily the most insightful thinkers—they are the ones who know how to work within the frame.

This isn’t unique to the LSAT. All standardized tests do this to some extent. They reduce human cognition to measurable units, then rank those units on a curve. In doing so, they define who gets access to the next tier of opportunity.

That’s what struck me most about the LSAT. It was a filter disguised as a measure. It didn’t just tell law schools how students might perform. It told them who had already been trained to play the game.

And that game, whether we like to admit it or not, often starts long before the first practice test is taken. It starts in classrooms that teach students to love logic puzzles. It starts in households where reading and analysis are daily habits. It starts in communities that value education not just as a means to an end, but as a process of identity-building.

As I thought more about this, I began to see the test not as the villain, but as the symbol. The LSAT didn’t create inequality. It simply revealed it. It revealed who had the time to prepare. Who had the money to invest. Who had the exposure to academic thinking styles. Who had the cultural ease to sit in a room and calmly break down logical structures without panic.

And yet, for all these limitations, the LSAT still does something useful. It forces people to confront the limits of their thinking. It challenges them to read more carefully, to argue more precisely, and to reason with clarity. These are not useless skills. They matter, both inside and outside of courtrooms.

But the test is also a reminder that intelligence is broader than logic. That value cannot always be reduced to a number. That ability, when divorced from context, tells only half a story.

In the end, my score didn’t define me, but it did reshape how I view standardized testing. I no longer see these exams as pure measures of merit. I see them as entry rituals—modern versions of ancient trials. They don’t just test aptitude. They test how well someone can navigate a system. And that system, like all systems, is built with rules that reflect certain values.

If we want to truly open up access to the legal profession—or any profession governed by standardized gates—we have to acknowledge what those values are. We have to ask whether they are still serving us, or whether they are simply preserving a hierarchy that begins long before the first question is ever answered.

What the LSAT Didn’t Measure — A Reflection on Learning, Identity, and Living Without the Curve

After the score arrived, after the disbelief softened into quiet reflection, I realized something important. This experiment—my spontaneous decision to sit for one of the most competitive graduate admissions tests without preparation—was never really about law school. It wasn’t even about proving anything to anyone else. It was about facing a question I had carried silently for years: what if I’ve had hidden genius all along, waiting to be uncovered by the right kind of test?

That kind of wondering is seductive. It’s tied to our obsession with sudden discovery, our cultural fascination with talent unearthed without effort. We’ve all seen the stories. The chess prodigy who never lost a game. The math whiz who solved the unsolvable equation at age eleven. The writer whose first novel was hailed as a masterpiece. The idea of latent brilliance lurks beneath so many of our ambitions. And in my case, the LSAT seemed like a way to find out. If I could take the test cold and walk away with a dazzling score, what might that reveal about me?

But as the weeks passed, and my 158 settled into something ordinary, something no longer hypothetical, the question shifted. It stopped being about whether I could become a lawyer or whether I had a hidden skill. It became about something far more complex: what does it really mean to be smart? What do standardized tests like the LSAT truly measure? And how do we reconcile the results with the messier, richer realities of who we are?

A score is tempting in its clarity. It gives a number, a percentile, a rank. It allows for comparison. It suggests objectivity. In a world where people often long for validation, a score can become a kind of shorthand for self-worth. But I’ve come to see that temptation as dangerous. Because a score, no matter how carefully calibrated, can only capture what it’s built to measure. And that range is always narrower than we’d like to admit.

What the LSAT did measure was my ability to understand and manipulate abstract relationships. It measured how quickly I could read and interpret dense passages. It measured my capacity to follow logical patterns under time pressure. It measured, in part, my composure and my willingness to play by its rules.

What it didn’t measure was who I am when faced with real-life moral ambiguity. It didn’t measure the empathy I bring to difficult conversations. It didn’t measure my creativity, my curiosity, or the way I navigate complex human dynamics. It didn’t touch on how I learn, how I adapt, how I grow from failure. It didn’t know whether I’m the kind of person who uplifts a team or isolates myself in stress. And it certainly didn’t capture the parts of me that make me most human.

This isn’t to say the test is without value. The LSAT’s focus on logic, argument, and attention to detail serves a real purpose in preparing people for the structure and precision of law school. But it is just one lens among many. And what I learned from taking it without preparation is that no single lens should define our sense of capability.

For a while, I wrestled with the result. A 158. Neither brilliant nor shameful. A solid score. But in the world of law school admissions, solid can sometimes feel like settling. When your experiment begins with the fantasy of surprising yourself into excellence, an average result can sting more than outright failure. At least failure offers a narrative of misfire. But an average score whispers, maybe this is just your limit.

I had to ask myself whether I could accept that. Whether I could let go of the idea that somewhere inside me was a hidden genius waiting for the right challenge. And slowly, with time, I realized something liberating: maybe that narrative was never real to begin with.

We grow up being told that success can be captured, quantified, listed on a resume. But life rarely plays out that cleanly. Our most meaningful growth often occurs outside the metrics. In the relationships we build, in the habits we cultivate, in the resilience we show when things fall apart. The LSAT had been a sharp, focused exercise in logical reasoning. But the process around it—deciding to take it, confronting my doubts, facing the quiet judgment of others, wrestling with the aftermath—that was where the real learning took place.

I began to understand that testing ourselves doesn’t always have to involve formal tests. Sometimes, the harder test is facing a mirror and asking what we truly value. Would I have felt better with a 170? Probably. But would that have changed my day-to-day life? Would I have suddenly applied to law school, changed careers, stepped onto a new path? Unlikely.

Because beneath my experiment was a deeper truth: I didn’t want to become a lawyer. I didn’t dream of courtrooms or contracts. What I wanted was to prove something to myself—that I still had the spark, the sharpness, the potential. And once I’d proven enough to satisfy that hunger, the question became, what now?

That’s the part no test can answer.

There’s a kind of magic in curiosity that has nothing to do with outcome. The decision to take the LSAT without studying was reckless in some ways, but it was also honest. It was a return to learning for the sake of discovery. And that, more than the score itself, was what I took from the experience.

In the weeks after the score was released, I started reading more about how we define intelligence. Not the academic papers, not the psychometric theories, but the lived experiences of people who found success in ways no test could have predicted. Artists. Teachers. Community leaders. Innovators. These were people who hadn’t always excelled in school, who didn’t always test well, but who had gone on to build meaningful, impactful lives.

What they shared wasn’t a high LSAT score. It was persistence, clarity, compassion, and a drive to keep learning in unconventional ways. It made me realize that while scores may open doors, they don’t sustain you once you’re through. It’s your character, your mindset, your willingness to face uncertainty that carries you forward.

I’ve also come to understand that part of growing older is letting go of the dream that one day, the world will uncover your hidden genius. That someone will knock on your door and declare you a prodigy. That a test will show you belong at the very top, even without effort.

That dream can be comforting. But it can also be paralyzing. Because it keeps you waiting. Waiting for validation, instead of building your life brick by brick, act by act, habit by habit.

Taking the LSAT was a way of shaking that illusion loose. I no longer believe that I’m one brilliant test away from reinvention. But I do believe that reinvention is always available to those who show up with curiosity and courage.

The legal profession may not be my calling. But the questions the LSAT posed—about logic, structure, clarity—remain valuable. They’ve made me more thoughtful in how I argue. More aware of assumptions in everyday conversations. More curious about systems and how they’re built.

In that sense, the test did teach me something. Just not in the way I expected.

More than anything, the experience reminded me that it’s okay to be average. To not be a wunderkind. To live a life that doesn’t come with elite scores or secret talents. There is dignity in showing up, in engaging sincerely, in being willing to stretch yourself without guarantees.

When I think about the people who took the LSAT with me that day, I feel a quiet respect. Most of them were young, disciplined, and probably terrified. For many, this was the next step in a long path. I don’t know where they are now. But I hope they learned something more than how to eliminate wrong answers. I hope they learned how to carry themselves through systems that often feel cold and impersonal.

The LSAT, for all its rigidity, reminded me of something human: the longing to measure up, to be seen, to prove we’re capable.

But it also reminded me that life doesn’t have to be lived by numbers. That the most meaningful parts of who we are often exist outside scoring bands and admissions formulas.

My 158 doesn’t define me. Neither would a 172. What matters is what I did with the experience, how it made me reflect, what it helped me see about myself and the world I’m part of.

And in the end, that’s the real test—the one that never ends, the one we take every day in how we show up for ourselves, for others, for the work we choose to do.

I still don’t know what my true genius is. Maybe I don’t have one. Maybe that’s not the point.Maybe the point is to keep learning anyway.

Conclusion

Taking the LSAT without preparation started as a personal experiment — an impulsive attempt to uncover hidden brilliance, to test whether raw reasoning could stand against a system built on structure, strategy, and study. But what unfolded was far more insightful than any single score could reveal. It became a lesson in humility, in understanding how much institutional success relies not only on talent but on access, context, and preparation.

The LSAT, like many standardized tests, is not inherently unfair, but it is inherently narrow. It asks you to think in a particular way and rewards those who can master that format. While it effectively measures certain analytical skills, it cannot capture the full scope of human intelligence, empathy, or creativity. And it certainly does not define who you are or what you’re capable of becoming.

A score, whether high, average, or low, is not a destiny. It is a snapshot taken under pressure. It is a number tied to a particular moment in time, not a complete measure of one’s mind or potential. More important than any percentile is what we learn about ourselves in the process of reaching for answers we’re not sure we can find.

For me, this journey ended not with the revelation of genius but with the quiet understanding that curiosity, effort, and honesty carry greater weight than any curve. I may not be going to law school, but I gained something more enduring — a renewed commitment to learning on my own terms, and a deeper trust in growth that unfolds beyond scores.

In the end, perhaps the greatest insight is this: your worth isn’t measured by the tests you pass, but by the questions you continue to ask long after the test is over.