23/09/2025
A Teacher’s Story
All names mentioned are just made-up to maintain the confidentiality of the people involve.
My name is Mr. Cruz (not my real name), and I am a teacher. Many see me stand in front of a classroom and think I am confident, composed, and unshaken. The truth is, I live with an anxiety disorder that makes even the smallest tasks feel like climbing a mountain. Each morning, before stepping into the classroom, my chest tightens, my hands tremble, and my thoughts run wild: What if I fail today? What if I’m not good enough?
But when the bell rings, I remind myself why I am here. I take a deep breath, steady my hands, and step into the classroom. Teaching, though it fuels my fears, is also the very thing that gives me strength.
Inside my class, I strive to bring out the best in every student, no matter their differences. I remember one morning when I called Miguel to the board.
“Sir, I might get it wrong,” he whispered nervously.
“That’s okay,” I said gently. “Mistakes mean you’re trying—and that’s always better than not trying at all.”
He shuffled forward, chalk in hand. He erased twice, cheeks flushing, before finally writing the correct answer.
“Excellent!” I clapped. The class followed with applause, and Miguel grinned for the first time that week.
Moments like that remind me that my role is not just to teach lessons from a book, but to plant seeds of courage.
Another time, I encouraged Liza, the quietest in class. “What do you think, Liza?”
She hesitated. “I… I think the answer is twelve.”
Her answer wasn’t perfect, but I smiled warmly. “Good idea! Let’s build from what you shared.” Her face lit up, and from then on, she began raising her hand more often.
Those small triumphs quiet my anxiety. But outside the classroom, I face challenges that shake me even harder—challenges not with students, but with some parents.
I will never forget a heated meeting with Mrs. Santos. She stormed in, her son trailing behind with a smug grin.
“Sir Cruz,” she snapped, “my son tells me you humiliate him in front of the class. Why would you do that?”
I steadied my breath. “Ma’am, I assure you, I did not humiliate him. I asked him to solve a problem on the board, the same as his classmates. He actually did well.”
She frowned. “But why call on him at all? At home, I don’t force him. He studies when he wants to. You should respect that.”
I kept my voice calm though my heart pounded. “Participation builds confidence, Ma’am. Even if mistakes happen, it teaches resilience. That’s why I encourage everyone to try.”
Her arms crossed tighter. “Confidence? He came home upset! Don’t push him—he’s sensitive.”
I swallowed hard. “With respect, Ma’am, shielding him too much may prevent him from realizing his potential. We both want him to succeed. I only ask for your support.”
She leaned forward, her tone sharp. “So you think you know better than me? If my son doesn’t respect you, maybe you should ask yourself why!”
Her son smirked wider. I felt the sting deep inside—not because she insulted me, but because her son was learning that disrespect was acceptable. I could only bow my head slightly and reply, “I understand, Ma’am. Thank you for your time.”
That night, I wrote in my journal:
“It is not my students’ differences that weigh me down, but the resistance of parents who mistake indulgence for care. When disrespect is excused, the child suffers most. A teacher can guide and uplift, but without a parent’s support, the roots of growth are fragile.”
For days, I carried that encounter heavily—until another meeting reminded me of why I keep going.
During a different conference, Mr. Ramirez, father of one of my struggling students, shook my hand firmly.
“Sir Cruz,” he said with a smile, “thank you for not giving up on my daughter. She told me you called on her even when she was shy. Now, she explains her lessons to her younger brother at home. She’s more confident because of you.”
I was stunned. “Thank you, Sir. That means a lot. I only want my students to see what they’re capable of.”
He nodded. “We parents should do our part too. If she disrespects you, tell me directly. A child must know respect, especially for those who guide them.”
I walked home lighter that evening. His words reminded me that while some parents close their doors to partnership, others open them wide. And those few make the struggles worth enduring.
Still, as I continue my journey as a teacher with anxiety, the question remains in my heart:
How do we, as teachers, approach parents who defend their children even at the cost of respect and growth? Do you have any suggestions?
