What I am about to share has been a significant stepping stone in my journey to becoming a teacher.

I have always loved school.

My earliest memories take me back to kindergarten, where I dreamed of becoming a teacher. It was the only game that truly fascinated me. Wherever I was, I played “school.”

At home, I imagined my eight younger siblings were my students. With a stick as my pointer, I wrote invisible letters on the walls.

That game was the only place where I was someone important.

But real school… That was different.

My love for it had to endure countless trials.

Even when I faced discrimination, when I wasn’t chosen for sports teams, when I always came in second place, I never stopped loving it.

Most of all, I loved school for the endless opportunities it offered me—for new challenges and fresh starts.

Middle school was going to be my chance to impress every single teacher.

One of the greatest challenges came in the form of a teacher everyone whispered about. He was the strictest teacher in the school, his reputation nearly legendary: earning a perfect grade from him, a 10, was rare.

I eagerly awaited the day I’d meet him.

Right then , at 10 years old, I set a goal: not only to earn his respect, but to prove to him—and to myself—that I was special.

My first day of middle school.

Monday morning. 8 a.m.

I hadn’t slept all night.

I was too excited to finally be in his class.

When the moment came, every eye was fixed on the door.

The big hand on the clock hit twelve.

The door opened.

He walked in, wearing a dark gray suit. His greying eyebrows cast shadows over his sharp gaze as he scanned the room.

In that heavy silence, I was the only one standing awkwardly by my desk.

He took a few steps and stopped—right in front of me.

I froze.

Then, a powerful force turned my head to the side.

Shock. Heat. Shame.

The sound of that slap echoed in my ears long after it happened.

And the red mark it left wasn’t just on my cheek. In my child’s eyes, this “god-like” figure had brought me down to earth.

Paradoxically, that slap didn’t extinguish my admiration. Somehow, it fueled it.

The same hand that struck me was the same one that would repeatedly award me with a perfect score of 10.

Despite that rocky start, our relationship evolved.

A week later, I had a life-changing moment: I discovered the power of writing.

Our first assignment was an essay: A Day of My Life.

I wrote about my mornings. About how I woke up before dawn while my small, crowded house was still asleep. I described how I made lunches for school. I slicing bread for my siblings—sixteen slices, two for each of them. I wrote about hurriedly spreading butter with a dull knife. About how, with a guilty innocence, I kept the thicker slices for myself.

It was a simple story but raw and real, sprinkled with humor and vulnerability.

I filled ten pages with shaky pencil marks on a notebook. It was midnight. I was racing to finish my homework. I even wrote in the essay that I didn’t have time to copy it neatly into my proper homework book. I risked having this reflected on my grade.

The next day, the teacher asked me to read it aloud to the class.

For a brief moment, I saw something flicker in his eyes.

He saw me.

Without a word, he wrote the grade in the register. He asked for my grade book.

I didn’t dare look until I got to my seat. A 9 out of 10.

When he noticed the disappointment in my eyes. He gently pinched my cheek and said, “If you’re foolish…” I heard a deep disappointment in his voice, too.

I hadn’t copied the assignment into my homework book. Rules were rules.

That grade hurt, but it pushed me to do better.

A few months later, during a school inspection, he pulled out my notebook and showed it to the inspectors. I saw the surprise in their eyes, while reading my essays. At the end of the lesson, they shook my hand. “Well done, young lady.” I didn’t fully understand what it meant, but he did.

For the first time, I saw something new in his eyes. My teacher was proud to show me to the world.

When it was time to choose a path, he was the one who said, “There’s a high school where you can train to become a teacher. It’s far from home, and it’s very hard to get in. But I believe you can do it.”

His words were like an anchor, holding me steady on my course.

I made him proud again.

Looking back, I realise this man was much more than the strict teacher who rarely gave an +A.

He was the one who opened a door for me.

He placed a hand on my shoulder, saying, “Step through. You have what it takes.”

Without him, I wouldn’t be who I am today.

I wouldn’t even be a teacher.

I can’t change the slap I received that day. Still, I choose to believe it says nothing about me. It didn’t define me, nor did it decide my future.

I never resented him for it. The same way, I never properly thanked him for all the good he gave me.

I never thanked him for being the first person who saw me, who encouraged me, and who believed I can.

But every day, when I step into my classroom, in my own human and imperfect way, I carry his lesson onward.

And I am mindful of the marks I leave on my students’ lives.