Two Teachers, Two Paths
Some people walk into your life like a gentle breeze and leave behind a storm of inspiration. For me, that person was my high school teacher.
She wasn’t the loudest voice in the staffroom or the most awarded—but in her classroom, something special always happened. I was a quiet student, just one among many, often too shy to raise my hand. But she saw something in me—not just my academic potential, but the person I was becoming. Her eyes scanned beyond test scores. She noticed the silences, the hesitations, the quiet dreams.
She asked questions that made me think, not just remember. She smiled when I got something wrong and turned my errors into stepping stones. For her, a mistake was never something to be punished—it was an invitation to grow.
I still remember the day she paused after class, handed me a paper I had nervously submitted, and said softly:
“You don’t need to be perfect to be great. Just keep showing up.”
That line stayed with me. It followed me through college, through doubts and trials, through late-night study sessions and big decisions. It gave me the courage to speak up, to try new things, and most of all—to believe in myself when I struggled to.
She wasn’t just a teacher of subjects. She was a teacher of life. Years later, when I stepped into my own classroom as a teacher, I realized how much of her still lived in me. The way I encourage the unsure student, the way I handle mistakes with care, the way I see beyond the obvious—it’s all borrowed from the quiet strength she showed me.
But life, as it often does, shows us more than one side.
During my postgraduate days, I met a very different kind of teacher. This time, the classroom didn’t feel safe or inspiring. It felt heavy. The teacher—along with a few others—seemed more focused on authority than understanding. Students were seen as challenges to be managed, not minds to be nurtured.
There were no warm words. No gentle nudges. Instead, there was sharp criticism, cold comparisons, and a silence that made it hard to breathe.
This phase was difficult. I often questioned myself. I doubted my abilities. I wondered if I belonged.
But pain, too, can be a teacher.
That experience taught me what kind of educator I never wanted to be. It opened my eyes to how deeply a teacher can affect a student—not just in their performance, but in their confidence, their joy, their identity.
In the contrast between these two teachers, I found my path.
One teacher lifted me, the other almost broke me. But both shaped me.
Because of them, I walk into my classroom every day with a clear purpose. Not to show what I know, but to ignite what they can become. I remind myself that every student carries an invisible story. Some are loud and eager, others quiet and unsure. Some need encouragement; others just need to be seen.
I try, every day, to be the teacher who says, “You matter.”
The one who believes in effort more than perfection.
The one who teaches not just from books, but from heart.
In this journey of teaching, I’ve learned that the subject doesn’t matter as much as the substance behind it. You can teach equations or code or grammar—but if you don’t teach with empathy, it rarely sticks. Students forget lectures, but they never forget how you made them feel.
Teaching, at its best, is not a transfer of information. It’s the building of confidence. It’s not just giving answers—it’s holding space for questions.
Today, I carry both stories with me: the warm encouragement of one, and the harsh silence of another. One reminds me what to be, the other reminds me what not to become.
And for that, I’m grateful to both.
Because in the end, every teacher leaves something behind.
And I’ve chosen to carry forward kindness, curiosity, and the belief that even one gentle word can change the course of a student’s life.
Shahana Shirin V
Assistant Professor of Computer Science
Department of Computer Science
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