They don’t tell you that teaching will hurt.
That some nights, you’ll stare at a pile of ungraded papers and wonder if it’s even worth it.
That you’ll lose sleep worrying about a kid who stopped showing up.
That you’ll question yourself when some of your students are not submitting their assignments.
They don’t tell you that the job doesn’t end when the bell rings.
Because the truth is, the weight of their stories follows you home.
There was a semester I almost quit.
Pay was low, the noise was high, and the spark that once fueled me had dimmed.
Every class felt heavier than the last. I thought maybe I was done.
Then one afternoon, as I packed my things, I found a small folded note on my desk.
It read: “Sir, thank you for believing in me. No one ever did.”
That line hit harder than any lecture I’d ever given.
It reminded me that teaching isn’t a profession. It’s an act of faith.
You show up even when you’re tired. You plant seeds you might never see grow. You hold space for kids who carry more than they should.
That note saved my fire.
Because I’m not, admittedly, the best professor one can ask for. Maybe at my level, I can at least touch five percent of my students.
If I’m teaching a hundred this semester, changing five lives for the better isn’t that bad, right?
Oh, and sometimes, I’d read notes that say, “Sir, you are my crush.”
Guess that counts as extra credit.