They Were Always Teaching Me

We think we know what it means to be a teacher.
We walk into classrooms believing we’ve come to shape young minds—to impart knowledge, spark curiosity, and prepare children for the world. And we do.
But what we often don’t realize until much later is that they are shaping us too. Teaching us, even as we’re trying to teach them.

It’s been nearly thirteen years since I left the classroom, but the lessons have not stopped. If anything, the distance has clarified the truth: learning never ends, and real teaching is never a solo act. It’s reciprocal. It’s sacred. And it reaches far beyond the curriculum.

When I began teaching, I saw children. Some were quiet. Some were loud. Some were brilliant and didn’t know it. Some were hurting and didn’t say it. All of them were unfinished and luminous. And all the while, I was becoming. As they grew, so did I—personally, professionally, and spiritually.

Teaching is much like building a sandcastle. You show up year after year, grain by grain, shaping and smoothing. Sometimes the tide comes and takes part of it away. Sometimes another hand joins yours. Sometimes you have no idea what was built before or what’s coming next. You just kneel in the sand and build with care. And then, one day, you step back and realize: something lasting is there.

Mary McLeod Bethune once said, “Invest in the human soul. Who knows, it might be a diamond in the rough.” That’s what every real teacher does. We invest not just in lessons, but in lives. We do it knowing we may never see the full return. But sometimes, if you’re blessed enough, you look up years later and see what bloomed.

Education has deep roots. I think often about the Rosenwald Schools—6,000+ schools built by and for Black communities across the Jim Crow South. Born of urgency and collective will, they were proof that when we invest in children, we invest in a future we may never fully touch, but always believe in. I’m here because someone taught in one of those schools. Someone held the line. Someone believed that education was both liberation and legacy.

And yet, in today’s America, the very idea of listening to the next generation feels radical. We are living in a time when children’s truths are being legislated out of classrooms, when books are banned, when teachers are vilified for telling the truth. And still—young people keep speaking. Their clarity cuts through the noise of our adult cynicism. Their honesty reminds us what we’ve forgotten: that learning is a two-way act, and the world only heals when we make room for both teaching and listening.

A true teacher isn’t just committed to the lesson.
A true teacher is committed to who the student becomes.

Because that student will grow.
And they will remember.
And they will still be watching.
And we, if we are brave enough, will still be learning.