What more can I give?
I love my job. I love my students.
These are not just words I say at the end of a good class or a fulfilling week. They are words I carry even on days when the grammar drills fall flat, when internet glitches slow down the rhythm, or when a student’s silence speaks louder than their participation. I love them not just because of who they are, but because of who they are becoming and how they allow me to be part of that becoming.
But loving what I do does not mean I don’t question myself.
Sometimes I lie awake and wonder: What more can I give? Not in the sense of overworking or stretching myself too thin, but in the deeper sense: am I helping them see themselves as learners? As people capable of thought, of agency, of choice?
Can I do more to make my classroom a place where asking a question feels braver than getting the right answer? Can I give more of what matters, not more worksheets, but more space? More silence to think, more invitations to speak, more stories that say: You’re not alone.
My students come from different realities. Some carry burdens heavier than their schoolbags. Some are the first in their families to dream out loud. Some are still learning what it means to feel safe in a classroom. And I think: how do I reach them not just as a teacher, but as a witness?
So I ask myself again: If I already give my time, my planning, my feedback, my energy, can I also give them belief? The kind that doesn’t always need to be said but can be felt?
And how can I teach in a way that leaves my students more whole than I found them?
