There is something healing about reading the personal stories of teachers. As I read Christina Chorianopoulou’s post, I felt like she was telling part of my story. For giving me, and others, this type of understanding, I am grateful.
I am also honored that she has written this piece in connection to the #RedThumbForLove project. Each word is an extension of her heart.
I’m a teacher. I’m still not entirely certain on how I became one, or why. It was one of those things that come and take their stand in front of you and you are called to decide whether you accept or decline the offer. When I said ‘yes, I accept’, I was not prepared for it. I just let it happen to me. I struggled, I asked for help, I learned, I trained, I struggled more. And I thoroughly enjoyed it. I still enjoy it. I became the teaching, even though I can’t pinpoint exactly when that was settled.
You have hopefully taken note of the personal pronoun so far. For quite some time, and time that is generally accepted and described as ‘the best years of one’s life’, this was my supposed inner truth: this is what Ι do, therefore Ι have to cope with the struggle and Ι
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