Brainbench | Transcript ID 91390 | March 27, 2000 | Keyboard Typist

At the turn of the millennium, TekMetrics rebranded itself as Brainbench. Along with the new name came sleek new certificates, purple borders, embossed seals, and something that mattered far more than branding: the introduction of “Master” level distinctions. Suddenly, you could prove not only that you were good, but exceptional.

That lit something in me.

Typing had always been tied to identity and competition in my life. My younger brother had always been impossibly fast—so fast that our typing instructor couldn’t keep up with him. Even years later, when I’d built an entire career in technology and had developed fundamental professional skills, a part of me still measured myself against that speed. I wanted to see if I could push further. Maybe match him. Maybe catch up. Maybe just prove something to myself.

So I went back.

The test felt different this time. The margin for error was razor-thin. Speed mattered. Accuracy mattered more. Every hesitation felt louder. Every tiny mistake carried weight. I got close—close enough to know I wasn’t far off, close enough to see the goal, but not close enough to touch it.

I didn’t earn the coveted “Master” distinction.

What I did receive was something humbler but still meaningful: a brand-new Brainbench certificate, freshly dated, physically mailed, acknowledging that I had retested, requalified, and still stood among the best typists measured by their program. Not a failure. Not a consolation prize. Just a recognition that getting better mattered—and that trying mattered.

That experience taught me something subtle:

Sometimes growth isn’t proving you can outrun someone else.
Sometimes it’s accepting where you stand, appreciating the skill you do have, and still choosing to press forward.

And yes — I proudly kept that certificate, too.