#reflction
I didn’t understand you back then.
Not the way you spoke up for me,
or the way you lifted my name in class,
or the way you kept trying to place me
somewhere better than the spot I kept shrinking into.
I thought you were comparing me.
I thought you were making a point.
I thought you were just teaching.
But now I see it:
You were caring.
Deeply.
And in the only way you were allowed to.
In the quiet way a teacher does,
without saying too much,
without making it awkward,
without crossing lines
just nudging the room around me,
lightening the air,
giving me a place to stand
that felt a little safer
than the one I would’ve had on my own.
I didn’t know how to receive that kind of care.
Kids rarely do.
Especially kids who already feel out of place.
But I see now
that you were offering me love
in the only way a teacher is allowed to
not with big moments
or emotional speeches,
but with the way you showed up,
the way you lifted me,
the way you tried to make sure
the world didn’t land quite so hard on me.
You couldn’t stop everything
that was coming.
You couldn’t spare me
from what I didn’t understand yet.
But you tried to soften it.
You tried to make it easier.
You tried to hold a little bit of the weight for me.
And I didn’t get it then.
I couldn’t.
how hard you tried to soften it.
How much of yourself
you poured into those moments.
How much you held for me
without ever making a scene of it.
You offered me care
in the only form you could give it
gentle, indirect,
spoken through a room
that didn’t know what you were doing.
And I didn’t know how to receive it.
I wasn’t old enough.
I wasn’t aware enough.
I just felt different when you spoke,
and didn’t know that difference
was your way of saying:
“I’m on your side.”
Now I get it.
And I wouldn’t change a thing
about the way you showed up.
Not one moment.
Not one word.
Not one awkward pause.
You cared.
And you cared honestly.
To the teacher
who saw me
before I did
I see you now.
Nov 25, 2025
Nov 25, 2025 at 4:45 PM UTC
My hand didn't want to awaken those abjections
but the ink wondered aimlessly on the paper.
Sullen episodes were like a cloud on the page.
Mists of what was like heavy dew on my
mind, thoughts drooped uncontrollably.
Then they conceded under strain descending.
Ink was abstract as I never understood why
I felt this incosectant need to cry every thought
on paper. My reflection is not what I feel inside.
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 9:17 AM UTC