When I first stepped into a classroom over a decade ago, I learned by stumbling.

As a teacher, you enter the classroom every morning with a lesson plan, your materials, and a vision for the day. But in the quiet moments, when the students are just themselves, you realize that they’ve entered carrying things far heavier than their backpacks. They carry stories—stories that are too big for their years, stories that leave you awake at night.

When my student, Marcus, strolled into class one morning and greeted me with a confident, “Yo, what’s good, Ms. M?” I could feel a few heads turn, the air thick with the unspoken tension of what’s deemed “proper” in a classroom.

Growing up, I often felt like a whirlwind in a world demanding stillness. I was full of energy, a true bull causing chaos in a china shop. Asa young girl, I excelled academically but silently struggled withinattentiveness, forgetfulness, and restless energy.