In December of 2014, immediately following a very successful fall theatre production at North Little Rock High School, I began having severe headaches and vision loss.  After a month of hospitalization and testing, I underwent emergency neurosurgery to place a VP shunt to relieve pressure surrounding my brain and, hopefully, save my vision and life.  The surgery was successful, though I would have permanent vision loss and there was no guarantee that I would ever recover from the double vision I was experiencing due to optic nerve damage.  I received frequent texts, cards, and emails from my students, their families, and my colleagues throughout the traumatic process.  My neurosurgeon advised me to remain out of the classroom until after spring break.  I was back on January 4th.  My principal sent me home for an additional week because I could not stand up on my own just yet, but I so desperately wanted to be back in my favorite place--with my students and in my classroom.

Due to the details of my procedure, I could neither blow dry my hair, wear standard clothing, nor stand up for more than a minute or two.  I taught class with fizzy, unkempt hair in a school-branded oversized sweatshirt, scarf, leggings, and boots from a rolly chair in the front of the room beside a sign that said "I love you, but please no hugs."  None of these things were at all like my norm.  It only took a week or so for my students, primarily girls that particular year, to begin wearing my new uniform in collective support.  We stuck together in oversized sweatshirts and leggings that whole spring, and every extra minute I could stand each day was celebrated by every single person in that classroom. It was with their help that I could shed my eye patch and begin to correct my double vision through sheer force of will.  The motivation and support that they gave me without reservation or condition changed my life.  I can see, literally, all the beauty in the world and in those around me.

I loved my students before this happened, but after they were firmly integrated into my personal identity.  My students--past, present, and future--are my driving motivation in all aspects of my life.  It does not matter who walks into my classroom; my mind equates them immediately with the individuals who supported and saved me.  I love them before I know them, and I am committed to providing them with the same unconditional support that I have been shown.

In the eight years since, the world has changed dramatically but my devotion to my students has not.  I tell my students this story and then spend the year proving that I love them and expect great things.  My example teaches students that other individuals are complex.  So many things about us, all of us, are invisible--disabilities, skills, traumas, successes, backgrounds, worries, and so much more.  I model compassion for all because I know this, and because I have been shown compassion as well.  Additionally, I represent some form of resilience.  I am a visual artist who has lost a portion of her vision.  Instead of mourning that loss, I celebrate the portion that remains.  I frequently tell my students that I am so thankful to be able to see their artwork progress throughout our time together; they understand the double meaning.  

I want my students to understand that they are enough.  They can achieve their dreams just as they are as long as they commit and surround themselves with other complex individuals who will love and support them.  I want them to know that I am one of those people, and nothing makes me happier than helping them build that foundation of motivation, confidence, and support. It is my hope that my model helps them become a model of compassion themselves.  Together, our impact is truly immeasurable.  And I am so thankful to be able to see it