For a long time, I believed teaching meant leaving parts of myself at the door, after focusing on a full-time career that made me feel like I had to dress a certain way, talk a certain way, and act a certain way to “fit in” with the then Miami-based journalism crowd.

At times, it wasn’t even about them, I know my worth, but it was mostly about feeling that yes, I will always be a journalist and I still am as a freelancer for publications that I adore being a part of with wonderful people that I’ve even mentored in the past and are great friends, but for some reason something was inside me was pushing me to become, not only a professor, but high school educator. Somewhere along the way, I was taught, directly and indirectly, that when you worry less about who you really are and if it’s ok to let all of that personality out, that it translates well into becoming a better teacher.

Education, I’ve learned, thrives when you bring your life with you into the classroom. Not in a way that overshadows students, but in a way that invites them in.

When I talk about my writing adventures, my background, the places I’ve traveled, the stories I’ve chased, and the risks I’ve taken, I don’t do it to center myself. I do it because students lean forward. They listen. They see a future that feels possible.

And maybe most importantly, they see someone who is human.

Some of my proudest moments as an educator haven’t come from perfect lessons or polished lectures. They’ve come on hard days, those days when I’m tired, grieving, or quietly carrying things my students don’t fully see.

On those days, at times a student or more will come by to class during lunch just to talk. Or tell me they loved hearing about a piece I wrote. Or say, almost casually, “You’re a safe space and we love your classroom and spending time here.”

Those words still stop me every time.

Being told you are a safe space is not something you earn through rules or authority. You earn it by being honest. By showing up as yourself. By letting students know that success doesn’t mean perfection, and strength doesn’t mean silence.

This is the first career in my life where I have fully, boldly accepted being myself. Not the edited version, not the quieter version, not the version that fits neatly into a box. Just me.

A writer. A teacher. A woman shaped by culture, ambition, loss, and love. And in doing so, I’ve realized how deeply students need permission to do the same.

After experiencing significant loss, that realization became even sharper. Grief has a way of stripping life down to its essentials.

It teaches you that tomorrow is never promised. That time is not guaranteed. That joy is not something to postpone.

So yes, I teach students to work hard. I believe in discipline, deadlines, accountability, and excellence.

But I also teach them something else: that their lives matter beyond their résumés. That their mental health matters. That opportunities show up for a reason, and sometimes the bravest thing you can do is say yes.

I tell them it’s okay to follow their dreams, even if the path isn’t straight. It’s okay to take up space. It’s okay to wear the dress, wear the crown, take the trip, visit the friend, apply for the thing that scares you.

Because waiting for the “right time” can quietly turn into waiting forever.

When students see me live that out, when they hear about risks, I’ve taken, stories I’ve pitched, cities I’ve walked through alone, moments I almost talked myself out of, they understand that ambition and vulnerability don’t cancel out strength.

Education is not just about content. It’s about connection. It’s about modeling what it looks like to live a full, intentional life while still showing up for others.

When students see that their teacher is still learning, still dreaming, still healing, it gives them permission to do the same.

On the hardest days, when teaching feels heavy and the world feels loud, I remind myself why this job matters. I’m not just teaching writing, journalism, or storytelling.

I’m teaching students that who they are is enough, and that who they are becoming is worth fighting for.

If I’ve learned anything, it’s this: being yourself in the classroom doesn’t weaken education. It strengthens it.

And when students leave knowing they were seen, valued, and safe, even for one hour a day, that is learning that lasts far beyond any lesson plan.

And that, to me, is everything.