The Stories They Carry: Teaching Through the Weight of Their World

By Melinda Medina

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.

I remember Angel, who always came to class with the same hoodie and jeans. He sat in the back, usually quiet, and sometimes put his head down. One day, I gently asked him if everything was okay. He avoided eye contact and muttered, “I didn’t eat last night or this morning.” Angel’s family was living in a shelter. Food was scarce, and quiet hunger gnawed at him as he tried to concentrate on my lesson about Fitzgerald’s, The Great Gatsby. I don’t think he could focus on the conflicts between social classes when his own world revolved around surviving the day.

Then there was Sophie, who stayed after class one afternoon to ask for help. She was missing a lot of assignments and her grades were slipping. She told me she was staying in a group home, sharing a small space with six other girls. “It’s loud all the time,” she said. “I can’t think straight, and sometimes, I’m scared because we always fight.” Sophie was 16, but her life had forced her to become an adult too soon. I told her we’d work out a plan to help her catch up, but the truth is, she didn’t need tutoring—she needed safety and stability.

Jaydel had an attendance problem. Weeks would go by, and he’d miss class, only to return disheveled and withdrawn. After a lot of patience and trust-building, he opened up. “Sometimes, I have to sleep on a park bench,” he admitted. His mom was struggling with addiction, and there was no place to call home. He was 17, one year from graduation, yet burdened with the question of where he’d lay his head at night.

Rosa, wore the same pair of shoes every day, the soles worn thin. She was painfully shy, but one day during a writing activity she shared a poem about her life. She wrote about nights spent in temporary housing, listening to the sounds of strangers moving around her and feeling unsafe. But she also wrote about hope—about wanting to be a nurse, to help people who felt as helpless as she often did.

Kevin was always falling asleep in class. Teachers often sent him to the principal’s office, assuming he was lazy or defiant. But when I sat down with him, he admitted he often doesn’t go home or sleep at night because he spends most of the time on the streets to help bring money into his household. “It’s hard to sleep when you have to be the man of the house,” he said. Kevin wasn’t a problem to fix; he was a child in desperate need of compassion.

In our classrooms, we encounter students who shoulder responsibilities far beyond their years. Some are primary caregivers for their younger siblings, stepping into parental roles because their own parents are working multiple jobs or are absent entirely. We have other students who flinch when someone raises their voice or makes a sudden movement behind them, the echoes of abuse reverberating in their minds and a result of past traumas.

These are some of the many stories of our students. The burdens they carry into our classrooms and the quietness in which they hold their unspoken narratives. Maybe once upon a time, you were that student.

As educators, we’re trained to teach standards, administer tests, and track data. But where is the manual for comforting the child who’s been beaten down by life before they’ve even had a chance to start? How do you help a student dream about their future when they’re unsure if they’ll eat dinner tonight?

Poverty and trauma are not just barriers to education; they are life-altering forces that shape the way children see the world and their place in it. Research can tell us about the brain’s response to chronic stress and the impact on the brain’s development. Research can tell us about how survival mode impacts memory and cognition. But sitting across from a student who looks at you with pleading eyes, all that theory feels distant and cold.

What I’ve learned is that sometimes, the most important lesson I can teach isn’t found in a textbook or the curriculum I created. It’s in the small acts of kindness that remind students they are seen and valued. It’s keeping granola bars in my desk drawer for when Angel’s stomach growls. It’s creating flexible deadlines for Sophie because her environment doesn’t lend itself to homework. It’s the clothes I bring in to provide to students like Rosa who just want to feel comfortable.

These students carry stories that could break your heart, but they also carry a resilience that will take your breath away. They step one foot in front of the other into our spaces, no matter the weight they carry. They show up even when it’s hard, because somewhere deep inside, they believe in the possibility of something better. Our job is to nurture that belief—to hold hope for them when they can’t hold it for themselves.

I often think about what success looks like for these students. It’s not always about grades or diplomas, though those are important and can provide long-term access and increase the quality of their life. Sometimes, success is Jaydel staying in school one more week, or Angel smiling because he finally feels safe enough to let his guard down. It’s Sophie writing a poem in class that helps her process her pain.

School is more than a building—it’s a lifeline. It’s a place where the lights stay on, the bathrooms are clean, and someone asks, “How are you?” and really means it. It’s where they can sit in a chair that isn’t shared, eat a meal that’s warm, and for a few hours, just be kids.

If we ensure our practices are trauma informed, our classrooms can be safe spaces. Our schools can be a safe haven where students can imagine a life beyond the barriers they face and they can dream out loud. It’s about cultivating an environment where students feel seen, heard, and valued. For kids living in chaos, the stability of school can be a grounding force. For those who feel invisible, a simple “I believe in you” can be transformative.

But it’s also about understanding what’s behind the behaviors we sometimes label as “disruptive” or “disengaged.” Yet, these kids show up with their tattered backpacks and heavy hearts. They show up with their dreams and their resilience. And they remind me, every single day, why this work matters.

Our classrooms must be more than spaces for learning—they must be spaces for healing. Spaces where students can find calm, can take off the mask, can draw their heart out, and share their poetry. Spaces where we listen not just to their words but to their silences, and where we meet them with patience, understanding, and an unwavering belief in their potential.

Yes, these stories are heavy. But in every one of them, there’s a spark—of resilience, of possibility, of hope. And as teachers, we have the profound privilege of protecting that spark until it’s ready to ignite.

This article was crafted by Melinda Medina, an independent contributor engaged by CheckIT Labs, Inc. to provide insights on this topic.

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