Smart

When I was in school, teachers didn't know about dyslexia, ADHD, or PTSD. They didn't understand my stutter, so I stopped talking, and just did the best I could to keep up and not get noticed by my teachers anymore. 

They did notice. All through my youth I was told I was "stupid," "deliberately acting dumb," and "failing tests on purpose." I was told I would never graduate. I got lumped in with the bad crowd, and wore my "dumbness" with pride. Until I met my 8th grade math teacher. 

Math was always my worst subject. Dyslexia turns timed multiplication tests into an instant panic attack. My former math teachers told me that they let me pass their classes just so they wouldn't have to deal with me again.
 
But this one teacher. He kept me after class and helped me with homework. He walked me through tests so I would slow down enough to finish them. And then one day, out of the blue, he told me I was smart, and that my brain just worked too fast for anyone else to keep up.

In all of my 15 years, nobody had ever called me smart. 

With that one little comment, I started passing classes. I ended up graduating not only high school, but college, too. My stutter slowed, and now, years later, I still truly believe that I'm smart.  

That one math teacher that took time out of his overworked days to tell the dumb kid she was smart. That's what stuck with me.
 

"That looks like a cartoon."

As a kid I always loved painting, and when I got to middle school, I finally had a chance to take a real art class.

We were working on landscapes, and I decided to paint a mountain range based on a real photo. I was really proud of my work so far, and I was so happy to have a whole class period in school dedicated to this beloved hobby. 

The teacher came up to me and looked at my painting in disgust. She said, "That sky is ridiculous! Skies are not that deep blue in real life. They're light grey. Almost white. That looks like a cartoon."

I tried to tell her that I was going directly off the blue of the sky in the photo, but she insisted I change it.

To this day, twenty years later, whenever I see a deep, rich blue sky in real life, I still think of her. 

"Just a phase."

Sophomore year of high school, I was well into my depression and struggling to find a reason to keep going. The first person I confided in was my dad, and he assured me that he'd help me find a therapist. 

Fast forward to a few months later, and my mom and stepdad were the ones who were helping me to find the help I so desperately needed. 

My dad finally attended a session with me, and afterwards he admitted to me in the car that he thought that my depression was "just a phase," and that he had never actually looked for help for me. 

It's been nearly 6 years, and I still don't think he takes me seriously.
 

"You're strong, and you should never forget that."

My art teacher was the one teacher who helped me with my mental illness. He never pointed out when I lost or gained weight, or when it was obvious that I was hiding the new wounds on my arms and legs.  He made sure I ate lunch in his classroom every day because he knew I had an eating disorder. Most days I just ate an apple, but seeing someone put forth so much effort into my well-being helped me more than he will ever know.

I came back to visit him after I graduated, and he told me, "When you first started coming to class your freshman year, I thought we were going to lose you before you graduated."

Then he smiled and said, "But you made it. And you did it on your own. You're strong, and you should never forget that. I'm proud of you."
 

"I had no idea you were good!"

I started taking singing lessons senior year of high school, and I loved it. At my very last lesson, before leaving for college, I sang my heart out on a song we'd been working on for a while. My teacher was really impressed, which made me so happy, but then she said, "Whoa, why didn't you sing like that the whole time? I had no idea you were good!" 

This made me so sad, and her comment has stuck with me. If she thought I was bad this whole time, why did she just passively keep it to herself? Why didn't she try to actually help me improve? 

And I hated that she made her comment in a tone that implied that we were both surprised that I was actually good, and that the general understanding was that my default was "bad."
 

"Heck of an arm."

In fourth grade, I attended Carnival Day at school. I tried to dunk one of the teachers in the dunk tank, but I couldn't quite hit the target. When my turn was over, I walked away, and a man came up to me and introduced himself as a local little league coach. He asked me, "Do you know you have a heck of an arm there? Do you play for any team?" I told him no, and he strongly encouraged me to come to tryouts. I told my mom when I got home, but nothing ever came of it. 

Looking back, I'm sure I would have loved playing ball, but it was that compliment that stuck with me. My home was a very angry place to grow up. I never got compliments or encouragement really of any kind. We were either invisible, or in trouble and getting screamed at. I vividly remember just about every compliment I ever received as a child because of the feeling of empowerment it gave me. Those compliments became my identity.

You never know what a person has to deal with in their life. Just be nice, always. Your kind words might be what sticks with someone else.
 

Too Weird For Marriage

Growing up, people told me that I was too weird to ever find a guy who would marry me. I was told that I'd have to find a guy who could "tolerate" me, and that I would have to be the one to propose. 

My art teacher in high school told me that the man I'd wind up marrying would probably be a serial killer.
 

Class Party

I didn't take French class, but I used to talk to the French teacher at my school because we both were French. When couple of kids told me that the teacher invited me to a French class party before winter break, I followed them to the classroom and began grabbing food from the buffet.

I went up to thank the teacher for inviting me to the party, but she just gave me one of the dirtiest looks ever and said, "Take your plate and leave the classroom."
 
It turns out she never invited me, and that a bunch of kids decided to pull a prank on me. I never talked to the teacher again.

And that's what stuck with me, even 12 years later.
 

"Life will always work out for someone like you."

The day after my boyfriend and I broke up, I sobbed about it on the phone with my cousin, who was three months younger than I was. 

For hours we relived our childhood memories and the games we created together and holidays we spent together. We talked about how excited we were to see each other in three weeks, when she would have her new car and I would be done with my semester. 

She told me, "Life will always work out for someone like you." 

She turned my tears into laughter. 

She died an hour and a half later in a car accident. 

I like to think that God, if there is one, knew he was going to take her and gave me one last time to relive everything we did together and how much we loved each other. 

During that phone call, I told her for the first time, "I know you look up to me, but I want you to know that your big cousin looks up to you too." I felt the urge to say this, out of nowhere. 

I miss her every day, but that last conversation is what keeps me together. I'm so thankful for whatever in the universe gave me that solace to be able to say goodbye, even when I didn't know I would have to. 

I live by her words, that life will work out for someone like me. And she gets to look down from heaven and watch it happen.
 

Guardian

Four years ago, I was in a car accident. I went unconscious, and a stranger pulled me out of the car and set me on the curb.

For a split second, before becoming unconscious again, I awoke to hear him tell me, "You're safe." 

I will never forget that man.