Teachers Save the World.

We moved around a lot growing up. We weren't a military family or anything like that, but we were a family of thirteen (that, down the timeline, became a family of 16) so we outgrew houses quickly. I hated it. I hated making friends just to leave them behind and I hated always being the new kid in school, but I knew my parents were doing the best that they could do.

Little did I know that last move to another midwestern state in 2008 would be our final resting place, (state wise at least, we still moved houses a lot). When we first arrived to Indiana I felt so out of place. The city was big compared to what I was used to in Martinton, Illinois, which made it a little scary to 10 years old me. Friends were harder to make because the school year was nearing an end, and everyone was already cliqued up. Another thing I wasn't used to, because where I come from everyone knows everyone and everyone is friends with everyone.

Summer came and went. My mom enrolled us into this summer camp at Purdue that I dreaded going to every day. My siblings enjoyed it because they still got to be around each other, but I was the baby and was too far away in age to be with my siblings during the camp. Honestly, I think this is when my anxiety started showing itself, because making friends on my own seemed like the worse possible situation I could ever be in. So still, I'd start my fifth-grade year with few people that I considered my friends at the new school.

I remember the first day of my fifth-grade year pretty well, and I think it's because when Mrs. K walked into the room it was almost as if the air became cleaner and the world turned slower. She was a literal ray of sunshine in my eyes. The positive energy she exhibited every day, the kindness she showed to us all, but most importantly the special attention I remember getting. She knew I was new to the area, so I think she made it her mental mission to make sure I fit in with the class in my own way.

As time progressed, I allowed myself to become a little happier with where I was. After all, the school wasn't that bad, and the kids were nice enough. By the middle of the school year, I was drowning in friends and best friends, so much so that I stopped focusing on my schoolwork. Being the type of teacher she is, Mrs. K gave me a stern talking to during our one-on-one check-ins. She knew what I was capable of, and she also knew that my momma would whip my butt if I didn't pull myself back together. But still, it didn't matter to me. The schoolwork was too easy, and I couldn't stay focused in class because of that, so I just turned all of my attention towards being the funny kid that everyone knew. But as I continued this cycle, I was also losing my writing flair, the bits that made me different from my classmates when it came to our writing assignments. The parts of me that made my imaginative mind be able to write what I saw in my head on paper effortlessly.

One day, after letting me go down this slippery slope for around two months, Mrs. K. came up to me with a story I had written and turned in. She plopped my floppy, black composition notebook on my desk, looked me in my eyes, and said, "Really?!" with a tone of disappointment so loud that I could've probably heard it in my dreams. She hated it. She knew that I was capable of writing a piece much greater than what I had written.

"Do it again."

"It's good enough and you know it, Mrs. K. Come on!" I groaned.

"Do it. Again." And she walked away.

She made me rewrite that piece three times before letting me turn it in. And when I turned it in that last time, she didn't even read it. She looked at how many pages it was and if my handwriting was done neatly, and then she marked the front page with a big red, 'A'. She said nothing else.

"No feedback this time, Mrs. K?" I questioned, heartbreak in my eyes.

"No."

"Why not? It was good! You didn't even read it."

"I know what you're capable of, and one day you will too. But I can't make you see how good you can be, you have to believe it. If you turn in garbage work, then you'll receive a garbage grade, or in the future, a garbage response, or a garbage job that you don't want. I will not applaud you for finally turning in an assignment worthy of your abilities; However, I will applaud you when you pull your act back together. You can write. You are a writer. Do not lose that, it's your future."

That was the day I fell in love with writing. The day I started to understand that what I saw as a simple, pass-time others saw as a skill, a talent. I knew then that writing would become my outlet for my emotions, the good ones and the bad ones. That writing would become the only way I knew how to express myself or my feelings towards others. I knew then that this teacher really cared about me. I admit, I was still a little upset that she made me rewrite it, just for her to never read it. But I understand that lesson now more than ever, and I remember it every day.

Mrs. K saved my life that day and neither of us knew it. Because just four years after that conversation, I would fall into an abusive relationship and drugs, changing my life forever. But guess what brought me back? Writing. Here I am, 24 years old now, and circling back to what I loved doing as a child and as a teen and finding myself feeling freer than ever. Getting back into writing helped me get clean, it helps me control my anxiety, it helps me ease my overthinking mind, it helped me leave an abusive relationship, it helped me realize my worth.

One conversation, one teacher that cared enough about all of her students in different ways, one silly A+ in fifth grade to put a smile on my parents' faces, and one angry 11 years old girl who couldn't understand why Mrs. K wouldn't just let her fail...helped shape who I became today.

Good teachers are the most important and selfless beings to walk our Earth. The genuine emotions and love they show their students, the hurt they feel when their students hurt, the joy they feel when we walk into their classrooms every day.

I could never do the work teachers do, I could never be Mrs. K. But I can, however, hope that everyone gets their own Mrs. K. Because teachers like her, teachers like: Mrs. Simpson, Mrs. Zeh, Mrs. Richardson, Mr. Glynn, Mr. Radtke, Ms. Lane, teachers like them are what change and shape the world every single day.

Teachers who hide their familial losses, day to day aches and pains, or outside of work problems and come in with the brightest smile every day. Teachers who understand that the kids sitting before them don't all get the same type of love at home, but they can absolutely get equal, yet individual love from their teachers at school. Teachers who pretend like they get paid enough, when they watch us misuse the supplies that was likely paid for out of their own pockets. Those teachers are who we need.

Teachers (and those sweet, sweet school nurses too) really do save the world, and the world could never thank you enough.