The Hand That Opened the Door

Prompt:

Write about the moment when your mentor recognized your potential and helped you see it for yourself. How did that act of empathy shape your journey?"

I remember it vividly—the moment when Mrs. Story changed the course of my life. Seventh grade was a confusing time, marked by the awkward dance between childhood and the looming shadow of adulthood. My love for words was my secret haven, a private world where I crafted stories that rarely saw the light of day. My classmates might have called me quiet, but in my head, I was always on an adventure, pen in hand, narrating the stories that needed to be told.

Mrs. Story wasn’t everyone’s favorite teacher. She didn’t go out of her way to entertain us and she had high standards in her classroom. She wasn’t the bubbly teacher who regaled the class with stories about her past. She was there to teach and she wanted to make sure we learned. She taught with a kind of quiet confidence, as if she believed we were all capable of something remarkable, even if we didn’t yet.

I don’t remember how she found out, but she likely overheard my conversation with a friend about a “book” I was writing. I had written many, many drafts and I would share it with this friend. It was a silly story about a life I wished I lived. It was likely very terrible and very different from the writing assignments I meticulously wrote for class.

I think we were a bit of a naughty class. I remember her often having talks with us about taking language arts seriously. One time, one of my classmates asked, “Why? It’s not like we’re going to become writers when we grow up.”

“Why not?” She retorted. “I know Megan has been working on writing a book. She could become a writer.” I laughed, embarrassed to be mentioned in front of the class.

She turned to me and smiled, that gentle, patient smile she had. “I think you have a passion and you should explore that dream. I think becoming a writer is a great goal to have.”

I remember nodding, a bit unsure but filled with a quiet thrill. That was the moment—a small, almost imperceptible shift that planted a seed in my mind. Maybe I could be a writer. Maybe my stories mattered.

From that day forward, I began to see myself through a different lens. I started to imagine a future where my words could travel beyond the confines of my notebook, where my stories could reach out and touch someone else, just as Mrs. Story’s words had touched me. It wasn’t just that she believed I could be a writer. She believed in my dream. With that, I charged into the rest of my life fueled by the belief that perhaps there was something in me worth developing.

Years later, when I became a teacher myself, I found myself channeling Mrs. Story’s spirit. I knew the importance of seeing each student not just for who they were but for who they could be. I made it my mission to be the kind of teacher who might one day inspire a student to chase a dream they hadn’t yet dared to articulate. I struggled at first, but eventually found my way.

But Mrs. Story’s influence didn’t end there. As the years passed and I settled into my role as an educator, the writer in me began to fade into the background. The day-to-day demands of lesson planning, grading, and countless meetings consumed me. My words stayed tucked away in dusty notebooks and fleeting thoughts.

Then, I transitioned into an administrator, still guided by that drive that had never left me. That work was also challenging, but I pushed through, grew as a person more than ever before. That brought me to where I am today, very secure and comfortable in the value I bring to my organization and truly loving the work that I do every day.

It wasn’t until recently, reflecting on the arc of my career, that I realized Mrs. Story had given me another gift. She had sparked a love for writing, yes, but she had also shown me that our passions never truly leave us. They lie dormant, waiting for the right moment to bloom again.

I decided to honor her impact on my life by revisiting the passion she had validated so long ago. I logged onto my computer and let the words spill out. It felt like coming home. This time, I wasn’t writing fictional stories about a dream world. I was writing deeply introspective quantum narratives about the lessons I have learned in my work as an educator.

Now, as I write, I think of Mrs. Story. I think of her gentle encouragement, her unwavering belief in the potential of a shy seventh-grader with a head full of stories. I realize that her act of empathy—seeing me, truly seeing me—has come full circle.

Mrs. Story taught me that our influence as educators extends far beyond the classroom. It reaches into the hidden corners of our students’ lives, sparking passions and dreams that carry forward into adulthood. And now, as I revisit my own dreams, I felt it was only appropriate to dedicate this narrative to her. Thank you, Mrs. Story.