Teaching Backwards

When I first stepped into a classroom, I thought I was there to teach. I had a lesson plan, a stack of books, and a head full of theories about education. I believed my role was to impart knowledge, to shape minds, to lead. What I didn’t realize was how often the tables would turn—and how frequently I would find myself the student.

Over the years, I’ve come to understand that some of my most profound lessons have come from the very students I set out to teach. These lessons didn’t always arrive wrapped in tidy packages; they often came in the form of challenges, quiet moments, unexpected questions, and even failure. But they have shaped me, not only as an educator but as a person.

Patience Is More Than Waiting

One of the first things my students taught me was the difference between waiting and truly being patient. There’s a kind of patience required in education that goes beyond endurance. I had students who needed time—not just to understand a concept, but to feel safe enough to try. Rushing them didn’t help. Instead, I learned to hold space for their process. I discovered that progress doesn’t look the same for everyone, and that some of the most meaningful growth happens beneath the surface, in silence, or through struggle.

Curiosity Is Contagious

I remember a student—nine years old, eyes wide with wonder—who once asked me why the sky didn’t fall. I gave a scientific answer, one I thought was clear. He stared at me for a moment and then said, “Yeah, but why doesn’t it fall?” His question wasn’t about science; it was about wonder. That conversation reminded me how easy it is to lose curiosity when you're focused on teaching outcomes. His question stayed with me longer than my answer stayed with him. It reminded me that curiosity should be nurtured, not just answered.

Vulnerability Builds Trust

Teaching requires authority, but it also demands humility. Some of my most powerful moments in the classroom happened when I admitted I didn’t know something or acknowledged I had made a mistake. Far from weakening my relationship with students, it deepened it. I saw their eyes light up when they realized that even adults are learning. I learned that vulnerability isn’t weakness in education; it’s the doorway to trust and connection.

Every Student Has a Story

There was a student in one of my classes who was always late, often distracted, and rarely turned in homework. My instinct was to discipline. But one day, after class, he shared that his family was living in a shelter and he had no quiet place to study. That conversation floored me. It changed how I see behavior. Behind every student is a story, and if we don't take the time to understand it, we risk misjudging them. My students have taught me empathy—not the kind that pities, but the kind that listens.

Success Looks Different for Everyone

I once had a student who struggled with traditional academics. No matter how many ways I tried to help him with reading and math, he just didn’t engage. But one day, during a group project, he built the most intricate model of a solar system I’d ever seen using only scrap materials. It was clear he had an engineer’s mind. That experience taught me that intelligence shows up in diverse ways. Not all students will excel on standardized tests, but that doesn’t mean they’re not brilliant.

Joy Matters

Sometimes, in the rush to meet objectives and cover curriculum, joy gets left out of the classroom. But my students constantly reminded me that joy is not a distraction—it’s essential. They brought humor, playfulness, and moments of spontaneous celebration into our learning environment. They reminded me that learning doesn’t have to be serious all the time to be meaningful. In fact, laughter often makes the lesson stick.

Teaching has never been a one-way street. If anything, it’s been a winding path of mutual learning. My students, in their diversity, unpredictability, and honesty, have taught me to listen better, care deeper, and approach every day with a renewed sense of openness. They’ve challenged me to be more than a dispenser of knowledge—they’ve asked me to be human. And for that, I will always be grateful.