A Letter of Gratitude to My High School Art Teacher.

Dear Mrs. Anderson,

A visceral memory that still echoes like yesterday: I haven sitting in your art classroom 20 years ago, breathing the scent of oil pastels and listening to your kind words. This is a letter I've been hoping to write for years, so it feels vaguely serendipitous that I'm finally writing these words in the season of reflection between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur.

And you most likely wouldn't remember this, but do you recall that cold, grey Tuesday in November when I shuffled into your classroom, a muted sixteen-year-old drowning in oversized hoodies and words left unspoken? My dad was freshly unemployed, my mom was struggling with depression, and here I was: the entire home in tow. I thought like art class was just another check box that needed to be checked up.

You saw something in me that I didn't even see in myself. You never chastised me when I absentmindedly drew in notebook margins. Instead, you took a seat and asked me what the drawings were about. You were the first grown-up who was actively interested in peering under the hood of my brain, not just worried about what was wrong with me.

So that project on abstract painting? As most teachers were asking for solid, avowable, 100% answers, you showed me that sometimes the greatest form of expression comes from chaos.

You would say, "Art isn't about nailing it".

So it was only glad to get hold of its miles some what common expression, that if articulated, they are today with and for paper and pen in hand, not just art, but the mantra for life.

That winter art show was the turning point. I almost didn't submit my piece — a canvas infused with shadows that felt like they were swirling around the surface of all the things I could not say about my struggles with family. Not only did you convince me to then enter it but spent your lunch breaks with me helping unpick how I could frame it. My parents turning up unexpectedly to the exhibition and seeing my work forced us into a conversation that we had avoided for months. You did not only made it a space for art, you created a space for healing.

But your influence extended beyond the art room. You showed me that creativity is not an ability of a chosen few – it is a language to which only the courageous should be able to speak. I told you that I wanted to learn graphic design and complained about how my parents could never afford one for me, so you voluntarily stayed late on your own computer to teach me the basics. The additional hours you put in got me my first freelance job and contributed to the cost of my college applications.

What you might not realize is that the impact of your influence has spread beyond the reach of where you can see it. Now I run an art therapy program for at risk teens, and in each session, I tap into your patience, your wisdom, and faith in the healing power of creative expression. But when a student tells me they "can't do art," I hear you in my head telling me that "can't is just fear in a costume." I've repeated these words countless times, watching them take hold of a new generation.

The sketchbook you purchased for my graduation – with a note handwritten inside that reads "Your art matters because you matter" – rested on my desk, even still. It is torn and coffee-stained, but I have kept it with me as a reminder of the teacher who looked beyond my walls and discerned that on the inside was a soul struggling to speak another type of language.

What you taught was so much more than colour theory and composition. You showed me that to be vulnerable is a strength, mistakes are stepping stones and that often the greatest work of art we create is who we become. I discovered in your classroom that art is not what we do — it is the world and our role in it.

In writing this letter, I am aware that "thank you" stands insufficiently for the gifts you've bestowed upon me. What do you say to the man who helped you find your voice when all you felt that came out was silence? What words do you use to thank the one who taught you that even the deepest of hues can compose a pretty picture?

But maybe the best way of thanking you is to say this: your kindness and wisdom, and belief in creative expression saved not only my life but literally saved it. Your legacy lives on in the work I do now and in so many lives you've never met.

With always, unending and overflowing!

Your former student,

N.I.

P.S. I still do not have the ability to keep a steady hand between the black lines, but as you used to say, "Some of the best paths will never be straight in life."