One of my students from last year died this week in a car accident.
He was 13 years old.
There are no words that make sense of that.
He was one of those kids people label as “trouble.” Misunderstood. Guarded. A little rough around the edges. But I saw him. I understood him. We had more in common than either of us ever said out loud.
And that’s the part that’s been sitting heavy with me.
As teachers, we are constantly pulled in a hundred directions—test scores, classroom management, expectations, data, structure. There’s this pressure to prove that you’re in control. That you’re the boss.
So I focused on keeping my classroom in check.
What I didn’t focus on enough… was connection.
I wish I would’ve talked to him more. I wish I would’ve let him see more of me. I wish I would’ve created space for deeper conversations. I understood his pain. I recognized it because I’ve lived it in my own way.
But I was guarded.
I had a lot going on in my personal life, and instead of opening up, I closed off. I kept my walls high. I didn’t let kids see me the way I could have. And now I regret that.
The thing is—our bond was unspoken.
His mom told me he really liked me. That he enjoyed my class. He never told me that himself. And I never told him how much I saw him. It was an unspoken connection—one I felt deeply, even if I never knew how to name it.
But I did.
And I hope, somehow, he felt that.
Teachers don’t talk enough about the grief that comes with this job. The kind that follows you long after a student leaves your classroom. The kind that shows up years later and asks, “What if?”
So this is for the teachers who have lost students—I see you. I feel for you. You carry names and faces and memories that never leave.
And this is for the teachers who are still in the classroom right now:
Open up when you can. Let your students see you. Connect with them—not just as learners, but as humans. Because long after the grades fade and the assignments are forgotten, it’s the relationship they carry with them.
Your words. Your presence. Your care.
They live on in ways you may never witness, but they matter more than you’ll ever know.