I was never more nervous in my life than when I was observed teaching by the brass from the Teachers 2000 Program at George Washington University. My classroom was a whirlwind — 13 special education students, more than half with behavior challenges. And there I was, a student teacher, standing in front of them with my lesson plan trembling in my hands.

If it had been math, I would’ve been fine. Math was my comfort zone. But English? That was another story. Still, I knew one thing: connection mattered more than content. If my students felt seen, they’d learn.

My mentor teacher, Ms. Joyner, and I didn’t see eye to eye. She believed in firm control: silence, order, discipline. “You need to command the room,” she told me often.

I believed in breaking down barriers instead of putting them up. If I taught with empathy and adjusted my lessons for each student’s needs, the behavior would take care of itself. Was I right?

When she taught, the room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. No laughter, no noise, no energy, just compliance. But when I taught, the classroom came alive. Students shouted out answers, asked questions mid-sentence, sometimes even stood up to prove a point. It looked chaotic, but it was a beautiful chaos In my mind.

Ms. Joyner would watch from the back of the room, smiling that knowing smile, shaking her head as if to say, You’ll learn.

Then came my big day: my first formal observation. The moment when all my ideals, all my stubbornness, and all my heart-on-the-line teaching would be tested.

The students were excited but restless. I started the lesson, and within minutes, hands were waving, voices overlapping, and energy pulsing through the air. My palms were sweating, but I kept going, redirecting here, encouraging there. And then, something shifted.

A girl on the Autism Spectrum who rarely spoke, the one everyone had written off, raised her hand. “Ms. B,” she said, “I think I get it now.”

Silence fell. The room froze. And then another student chimed in, “Yeah, that’s like what you said yesterday!” Suddenly, everyone wanted to connect the dots. The lesson took on a life of its own.

By the end, the observer smiled. “That,” she said softly, “was teaching.”

It wasn’t perfect. It was loud, messy, and full of movement, but it was real. The students learned because they were in it with me.

That day, I realized that chaos isn’t always a sign of failure. Sometimes, it’s the sound of transformation.

When I think back on that moment, I’m reminded of Ecclesiastes 3:11: “He has made everything beautiful in its time.” My classroom chaos wasn’t a setback. It was a seed, the beginning of the teacher I would become, the one who believed that learning could look different for every student.

And just like that, my nervousness turned into peace. My chaos turned into breakthrough.

So, if you’re in a season that feels loud, uncertain, or out of control, hold on. Beauty might just be being built right in the middle of your mess. Sometimes I just have to fight the system.

🎵 “Hard Knock Life” by Jay-Z
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