To my younger self, to my previous students, and to the system that failed both of us:

 

I’ve carried this weight quietly, not always knowing what to call it — regret, shame, grief. But today, I want to face it with honesty.

To my younger self:

You didn’t even plan to become a teacher. You were promised something different — something closer to your real passion and advocacy. You said yes because you believed that, somehow, this would lead to your purpose. But the promise was broken. And instead of guidance, you were met with silence. Instead of support, confusion. You were thrown into a role you never trained for, yet expected to master it from day one. And when nothing felt right, when every step felt like a mistake, you kept pushing — even as you began to lose faith in yourself.

I forgive you for feeling lost. I forgive you for doubting yourself. You were in a place where no matter what you did, it felt like it wasn’t enough. But I see now — your effort was real. Your heart was in it. Even in your lowest moments, you cared.

To my students:

I know I came across strict, maybe too much at times. Some of you may have misunderstood me — or worse, felt misunderstood. My intention was never to hurt or intimidate, but to guide and protect, to keep the class from falling apart when I was barely holding myself together.

And about your grades — I know they were lower than what many of you hoped for. I want you to know: I didn’t want that. I tried to give the benefit of the doubt, I tried to find every chance to lift the numbers, but I couldn’t give away what wasn’t earned.

The subject itself is hard — and having a weak foundation makes it even harder, not just for students, but for teachers too. I knew what I was teaching, but it was difficult to relate it in ways you could easily grasp because many of you were still struggling with the basics. That disconnect made teaching feel like shouting across a widening gap.

But I don’t blame the teachers who came before me — they did what they could within the same limitations. The real fault lies in a system that is too rigid, one that doesn’t allow time to fill in the missing pieces, and one that expects progress without first ensuring preparation.

But despite all that — every mark, every tough class, every misunderstanding — I pray for you. I have always prayed for your success, in school and in life. If ever you see me, and you still carry questions or hurt, please don’t stay silent. Come talk to me. Let’s clear the air. Let’s end the distance. We are no longer teacher and student — we are just two people who shared a moment in time, and we both deserve peace.

To the system:

You gave teachers the weight of responsibility, but tied our hands behind our backs. You made promises and didn’t keep them. You handed out roles without the proper training, demanded discipline without guidance, and punished those who didn’t get it right the first time. You let teachers burn out in silence. You created a space where trying feels like failure and where caring too much becomes a burden.

Discipline became a trap. Grading became a moral dilemma. And the more we tried to do right, the more we felt wrong. And yet, you ask us to carry on like it’s normal.

Still, I believe things can change. And they must. Because if the system stays the same, the future of education — and the lives it shapes — will only grow more pitiful. We owe better to our students, to our teachers, and to the nation.

So I urge everyone: be the change. Speak up. Challenge what’s broken. Choose courage over silence, and care over compliance. We can’t fix everything at once, but we can start by refusing to pretend that this is okay.

There were days I felt like I was the only one struggling, even though I knew I wasn’t. But the culture of silence among teachers — the pressure to appear strong, unfazed, in control — made it hard to ask for help. It felt safer to say nothing than to risk being judged.

I was expected to be more than a teacher — to be a counselor, a parent figure, a moral compass, a therapist, and a disciplinarian — all while still trying to learn how to survive the day-to-day. And when I couldn’t do it all, I felt like I was failing on every front.

To those students who showed up, who tried even when it was hard, even when they were tired, confused, or overwhelmed — I saw you. I may not have said it enough, but I was proud of you. Your quiet efforts never went unnoticed.

There were moments I wanted to leave — not because I didn’t care, but because I cared too much, and it was breaking me. I felt guilty for thinking about walking away, as if my exhaustion was a betrayal. But now I know it was just a sign I needed help I never received.

To the teachers just beginning: I hope you are braver, more supported, and more free than I ever was. May the system hear your voice, may your efforts be honored, and may you never be made to feel small for struggling. Because asking for help is not weakness — it’s wisdom.

The experience left me with trauma — a quiet, lingering kind. Every day, I’m trying to overcome it. But I won’t deny that when I see a former student, something inside me still tightens. It’s a trigger, a reminder of moments I wish had gone differently. I’m learning to breathe through it, to give myself grace, and to trust that healing takes time.

Even if I hate to remind myself about the experience, the memories are kept as lessons. They still sting, but I hold on to the hope that maybe someday, I’ll be able to think of them as fond memories — moments of growth, not just pain. That with time, what once felt like failure may one day look like the beginning of something better.

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Me, today