#Memories - Chapter 3: The perks of being a bad teacher.

Once, I was told that being a teacher requires a great number of positive qualities: patience, empathy, organization, leadership, and an endless supply of motivation. However, now that I am about to set my children free from high school after five long years, I must admit that teaching also requires embracing some negative traits as well. Fear. Doubt. Uncertainty. Vulnerability. You may wonder why — and the truth is that no recipe, no handbook, and no university course is ever good enough to fully prepare you for facing your very first group of students as their head teacher.

Many colleagues, throughout the years, have claimed that they almost know everything and that they are nearly perfect professionals. In reality, it is quite the opposite. Teaching humbles you every single day. No matter how many years of experience you carry in your pocket, you must remain fierce and fearless when dealing with challenges, unexpected situations, and constant mistakes. More importantly, you need to understand that making mistakes is part of your own professional development — and that no one should ever make you feel ashamed of that or deny it. (Of course, if mistakes turn into repeated negligence… well, that is a completely different story.)

When you begin your first year as a teacher, there is only one thought constantly running through your mind: “I don’t want to mess this up.” And yet — you mess it up anyway. Over and over again. Undoubtedly, there is also a lot of joy when you are surrounded by colleagues willing to guide you, train you, and share their own scars from the field. That fear slowly fades away. As Ratatouille wisely says, “The world is often unkind to new talent,” but everything becomes bearable when you keep the right people by your side — keeping their effective strategies alive and burying those practices that truly deserve to disappear from the earth’s surface.

I was genuinely terrified the first time I stepped into a classroom. I remember standing there, pretending to look confident, while inside I had no idea what to expect. University training, teaching methodologies, professional practice — all of that existed, yes. But once your real starting point arrives, you realize that theory can only take you so far. You need to be brave enough to approach your students as human beings. You need to establish rules and boundaries (and soon enough, you are labeled as “the mean one”), and accept that this discomfort is simply the first step of a new and unknown chapter.

Looking back, my first year was not a disaster — but it was messy. My students were closed-minded, loud, childish, and emotionally intense (as we all are at that age), and in many ways, so was I. I punished them constantly. I called parents week after week. I filled the teacher’s book with negative comments. I barely used the creative strategies I had carefully researched to improve my teaching, because I was too busy correcting, controlling, and pointing fingers. I believed authority came from discipline alone. I believed being strict meant being effective. I was wrong.

One night, lying in bed after another exhausting day, I finally asked myself a question that changed everything: Were these the actions I expected from my own teachers when I was a student?
The answer was immediate and painful — no.

That realization hit hard. I understood that the problem was not them — it was my perspective. So I decided to turn my weakness into strength. I realized that what I truly needed was already in front of me. I only needed to slow down, observe, listen, and put the pieces together.

Gradually, everything started to make sense. I began giving them the love they needed at school — not the easy love, but the consistent one. I tried to be present, even when they did not notice it. I laughed at their jokes. I hugged them sincerely. I made a conscious effort to understand their individual personalities instead of trying to shape them into what I thought they should be. I taught them what they genuinely needed — not only content, but confidence, respect, and emotional safety. I listened to their stories. I learned about their families, their fears, their dreams. I made mistakes — and, for the first time, I owned them openly.

With time, something beautiful happened.

We faced challenges together.
We failed exams and celebrated small victories.
We cried — sometimes in silence.
We created memories meant to last forever.
We built a bond that was undeniably unique.
Slowly, without even noticing it, we became a family.

Now, as they prepare to leave, I realize that teaching is not about having all the answers. It is about being willing to grow alongside your students. It is about accepting that authority does not come from fear, but from trust. And it is about understanding that education is not something you do to students — it is something you build with them.

So yes — I was a bad teacher.
And I am proud of it.

Because without those mistakes, without those sleepless nights, without those moments of doubt, I would never have reached this point in my professional life. A point where my very first group of students is leaving school, taking half of my heart with them — and leaving me with the certainty that they taught me far more than I could ever have imagined.