#persimmonsrain

I am the main provider for my three cats here on campus: Pengo, Peanut, and Poppy. However, Peanut and Poppy don’t live with me. They come for food, nothing more. Sometimes they linger, sometimes they vanish as quickly as they arrived. They don't come when called, and they owe me nothing. Still, I feed them. Not because I expect their loyalty, but because I understand the quiet deal we’ve made. They come hungry. I have food. That's enough.

Pengo is different. He lives with me, mostly at night. During the day, he disappears into the campus. I imagine he has a whole secret life out there: shadowing students, sleeping under trees, finding other hands to scratch behind his ears. But he returns. Every evening, as the sky folds into itself, he comes home, settles next to me, and breathes into the silence of the room like he belongs.

Doris Lessing wrote that you can’t own a cat, you can only be partners. I believe that. Cats are creatures of freedom. They choose. And when they choose you, even briefly, it feels like a kind of grace.

Sometimes I think their way of loving is cleaner than ours. Not warmer, necessarily, but cleaner. They don’t pretend. They don’t make promises they can’t keep. They show up when they want to, and if they come back, it’s because they want to. Not because they’re supposed to.

And that makes me wonder why we expect human love to be something else. Something bigger, or purer, or more endless.

We’re told real love should be unconditional. But that’s not how we’re built. We’re not gods. We get tired. We want to be held in return. We want to be understood, not just endured. That’s not weakness. That’s just what it means to be human.

I used to think I had to love perfectly, to give without ever expecting. But now I think: maybe all we need is fairness. Show up when you can. Be kind. Don’t hurt what trusts you. Mean what you offer. Don’t take more than you give.

Peanut and Poppy still come and go. Pengo still disappears every morning and curls beside me every night. None of them are mine. But they choose me, again and again. And somehow, that feels great enough.

Teaching, at its core, is a deeply human endeavor. Beyond instructional strategies and curriculum outcomes, what often sustains teachers through the demands of the profession is not just the act of teaching itself but the relationships formed within it. Human connection in the classroom is not a sentimental bonus; it is a central, evidence-based contributor to both teacher effectiveness and well-being.

Educational psychology increasingly acknowledges teaching as an emotionally laborious and relational practice. As Hargreaves (1998) asserted in his seminal work, The Emotional Practice of Teaching, "Good teaching is charged with positive emotion. It is not just a matter of knowing one's subject, being efficient, having correct competencies, or learning the right techniques." Rather, good teaching “arises out of the relationships teachers build with their students.”

This idea is echoed and expanded upon by Sarah Mercer (2016), who emphasizes that language teaching in particular is inherently affective and relational. She argues that the quality of interpersonal relationships in the classroom significantly impacts both learner success and teacher well-being. Teachers who feel connected to their students are more likely to experience intrinsic motivation, job satisfaction, and resilience (Mercer, 2016; Yin et al., 2019).

From a cognitive science perspective, the social brain hypothesis suggests that our brains are evolutionarily wired for connection (Dunbar, 1998). Social interactions stimulate neural circuits related to empathy, reward, and meaning-making suggesting that the emotional bonds we form in classrooms are not only psychologically satisfying but neurologically reinforcing. This could explain why something as simple as a student’s enthusiastic participation, or an appreciative glance during a lesson, feels deeply rewarding.

Positive psychology offers further insight. Fredrickson’s Broaden-and-Build Theory of Positive Emotions (2001) posits that positive emotional exchanges such as those between teacher and student enhance our cognitive flexibility, build resilience, and create upward spirals of well-being. These brief yet powerful moments of interpersonal resonance contribute not only to teacher flourishing but to more dynamic, trusting classroom environments.

In practical terms, these human interactions can turn a routine lesson into something meaningful. A simple “thank you” after class, a student bravely asking a question, or the shy learner finally laughing out loud, these micro-moments of trust and joy are small, but they accumulate. They are often what teachers remember long after the term ends.

As a language teacher, I often receive affirmations from my students, verbal and non-verbal, that they feel safe, seen, and engaged. These connections don’t just help them learn. They help me teach.

There are days when I enter the classroom exhausted, uncertain, or quiet from life’s weight. And then, something shifts. A student greets me with a smile, another asks a follow-up question from yesterday’s lesson, and sometimes the quietest one says, “I like today’s activity.” These may seem like small things, but in the life of a teacher, they are everything. They remind me that presence matters. That being human in the classroom isn't a flaw; it's a gift.

And so, while we prepare our materials and plan our outcomes, it’s worth remembering that no learning happens in a vacuum. The relational space we co-create with our students may be the most powerful pedagogy of all.

It is in those shared silences, honest laughter, and mutual care that we not only build understanding but belonging. And in that belonging, we teach and are taught in return.

How do you nurture meaningful connections in your own learning or teaching spaces?

Selected References:

Fredrickson, B. L. (2001). The role of positive emotions in positive psychology: The broaden-and-build theory of positive emotions. American Psychologist, 56(3), 218–226.

Hargreaves, A. (1998). The emotional practice of teaching. Teaching and Teacher Education, 14(8), 835–854.

Mercer, S. (2016). Teacher well-being and the complexity of language teaching. In Gkonou, T., Tatzl, D., & Mercer, S. (Eds.), New Directions in Language Learning Psychology (pp. 103–123). Springer.

Yin, H., Huang, S., & Wang, W. (2019). Work environment characteristics and teacher well-being: The mediation of emotion regulation strategies. International Journal of Environmental Research and Public Health, 16(24), 4701.

This past month in class, we’ve been traveling, not physically, but through screens, stories, and shared dreams.

London, with its double-decker buses and ancient bridges, came first. It was in our textbook, so naturally, we leaned in. But what began as a reading passage turned into something more: a journey. We watched videos of the London Underground, the bustling markets, the solemn guards at Buckingham Palace. My students laughed at British slang, tried mimicking accents, and asked curious questions about afternoon tea and rainy weather.

Then came Taiwan, my second home. I told them about the night markets, the smell of bubble tea, the kindness of strangers, and the MRT gliding quietly through Taipei. Taiwan felt closer, more intimate. The videos we watched weren't just travel vlogs; they were pieces of my life that I wanted to share. And they welcomed them, warmly.

One day, I showed them the railway maps of London and Taipei—so colorful, so complex, so overwhelming. Lines crisscrossed like tangled threads. My students squinted at the screen, following the maze of colors, before sighing in unison: "I think I'm going to get lost."

I laughed. “Oh, I got lost a lot in Taipei Main Station,” I admitted. “It took me around six months to finally be able to navigate the transportation system on my own.”

They looked surprised but also, relieved. Maybe getting lost wasn’t a failure. Maybe it was part of becoming brave.

What started as curiosity has quietly grown into belief. Not just mine but ours. Now we say it with a soft kind of certainty: One day, they’ll go. Maybe to London. Maybe to Taiwan. At least to these two.

Motivation is a quiet seed. You water it not just with lessons, but with images, hopes, and stories. With a glimpse of the world not as something distant, but something waiting.

My students may not have passports yet. But they have dreams that know their destinations.

And in this little classroom, that’s where it all begins.

Not all storms announce themselves.

Sometimes, the sea changes in ways only the body knows such as a sudden hush in the wind, a shift in the color of the sky, the absence of birdsong. The water, still and seemingly calm, holds tension beneath. Red flags, in these moments, don’t wave. They rustle quietly. And if you’ve sailed long enough, you learn to feel them rather than see them.

In life, too, the most dangerous crossings aren’t always the loudest. Sometimes, it’s the relationship that feels almost right, the job that looks good on paper but feels hollow in your chest, the laughter that echoes just a second too late.

We are taught to value endurance, to persevere, to give benefit of the doubt. And while there is wisdom in not giving up too easily, there is also deep cost in ignoring what the self whispers. Emotional intelligence research particularly Daniel Goleman’s (Emotional Intelligence, 1995) highlights self-awareness as the foundation of all emotional competencies. When we override discomfort, minimize tension, or silence intuition, we don’t just betray ourselves but also disable our internal navigation system.

But noticing a red flag isn’t about dramatizing every ripple. It’s about attunement: trusting the internal barometer that says, “This doesn’t feel right,” and giving that feeling the weight it deserves. It’s about distinguishing between discomfort that invites growth—and discomfort that warns of erosion.

In this sense, letting go isn’t a defeat. It is a reclaiming.

Kahlil Gibran writes in The Prophet:

“Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.” This breaking is necessary. It allows light into the places where we’ve stored denial, fear, and overcompromise. It is what transforms vigilance into vision.

In Islam, this process is mirrored in the concept of sabr, not passive waiting, but active patience. Sabr is choosing to stay firm in integrity, even when it hurts. It is refusing to grasp at quick solutions or shallow affirmations. Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya once said, “The level of patience you show when things don’t go your way is the degree of your trust in Allah.” To walk away from something unfit even when it once felt like everything is also tawakkul (trust in divine provision).

This is not easy. Because red flags don’t always feel like danger. They often come wrapped in charm, in almosts, in maybe-this-time-it’s-different. But learning to let go, learning to say “this is not mine to fix or carry” is how we grow into people who love themselves well.

And so, I chart a new course. Not because the sea is calmer now. But because I finally trust the way I read the winds.

Ya Allah, there was a time when I came to You carrying a heart that felt unable to move beyond the past. I told You I could not forget him, and I feared that opening my life to anything new would be a form of betrayal. I treated my memories as if they were obligations, as if remaining attached to what had already ended was a sign of faithfulness rather than a sign of my own hesitation.

But Ya Allah, You know what is hidden within me better than I know myself. You know how often I have replayed what is gone, how easily my mind has mistaken familiarity for destiny. Today I ask You for something different. Grant me ridha, a sincere contentment with who I am now and with the life You are unfolding for me. Calm the restlessness that comes from comparing my present to my past.

Ya Allah, teach my heart to understand that remembering is not the same as being bound. Allow me to honor what I have experienced without allowing it to limit what I may yet become. Remove the guilt I feel when I imagine a future that does not look like my past. If new paths, new people, or new possibilities are written for me, let me meet them without fear and without the weight of unnecessary regret.

And Ya Allah, if I ever stand before choices that confuse me or pull me in different directions, grant me clarity and hikmah. Protect me from decisions driven by loneliness, fear, or attachment to what is no longer meant for me. Give me the strength to choose what brings me closer to peace, stability, and sincerity. Give me the courage to choose in a way that preserves my dignity and well-being.

Above all, Ya Allah, help me trust Your wisdom over my emotions, Your decree over my doubts, and Your plans over my attachments. Let my heart rest in the knowledge that nothing meant for me will miss me, and nothing that misses me was ever truly mine.

I heard the ring you never made

vibrating in the pocket of my sleep.

You think I took the exit,

but I’ve been driving in circles around the block of your memory

for two hundred and ninety-nine days.

Is it warm on your shirt?

That’s not my breath.

That’s the heat of the fire I started just to see

if you’d move out of the smoke.

I changed your name, too.

In my phone, you are "Do Not Sink,"

yet I find myself underwater every time

I pass our favorite street.

You ask if I am okay in your dreams,

but in mine, you are a statue

cold, perfect, and unmovable.

We ruined more than sixteen months;

we ruined the way I look at the moon,

the way I hear the word "forever"

without tasting a lie.

You celebrate my presence underneath you,

but I am carrying the weight of you

on my back.

We aren't friends,

and we aren't strangers.

We are a map with no destination,

staring at the ghosts of children

who would have had my eyes and your temper.

Don’t wait for the ring.

I’m staring at the screen

until it goes black

waiting for you to be the one

It’s been 299 days

since you said, "I’m leaving for good."

Your breath still feels warm on my T-shirt.

How come?

Low and down, I’ve been wrecked,

hugging your thorns between my legs.

And I’ve enjoyed it up until now,

because I was confusing pain with pleasure.

I still have your number

calling you mine, changing your name

but not once did it ring

and ask if I’m doing fine.

Should I be sad?

Long and grown, my sigh,

every time I spoke to you in my dream.

"Are you OK?" I said,

wondering if I should’ve addressed that question to myself.

Babe, what are we now?

We’re not even friends,

but too comfortable at times

to say we’re strangers.

We alienated the goals

we once set

for kids we never had.

Sorry for ruining our 16 months;

we’d never make it to the second anniversary.

But I’ll still celebrate

Yesterday, for the first time since I stopped my medication, my GAD was triggered. It felt random. I didn’t even know why, but it lasted for hours. It was hard. Overwhelmingly hard. I kept asking myself: Why? I’ve been so happy for the past month; truly the happiest I’ve been in two years. So, what was this?

I tried to unravel my thoughts. I was terrified of not knowing the answer. I spiraled: What if my anxiety disorder is back, stronger than before? What if my healing was only temporary? What if my nervous system has just been keeping score, waiting for the right moment to strike?

Then, it all clicked. I found the trigger.

For about two weeks, I’ve been surrounded by students who come from immense privilege. I don't want to be superficial by just calling them "spoiled," because we never truly know what someone else is going through. But being with them, I found a piece of myself that I’d lost. A part of me I never fully nurtured when I was younger.

I saw my younger self: the girl who needed to be held, told she was doing okay, and supported. The girl who needed more hugs and encouragement. That part of me is now watching these children thrive in ways I wasn't allowed to.

I realized my younger self was aching for that same treatment. Not the struggles she fought through, but the ease they have. I found myself wondering: "If I had been that lucky, would I have bloomed early?"

I’m glad I could identify this pain. I’m glad I can finally understand my younger self a little better.