Lately, I’ve been traveling to several cities for job interviews as I approach the end of my master’s degree. Honestly, I’ve been more focused on finding a job and earning my own income than graduating on time. The interviews went well, and I’ve even received a few offers. But strangely, I’ve started to miss home.
It’s odd, because “home” for me isn’t really a place, it’s more like a memory, something you revisit to when you miss the people you love.
This feeling was triggered by something one of the interviewers said at the end of our session, a simple phrase my mum used to say: “Be happy.”
That sentence stayed with me. I kept turning it over in my mind, and I couldn’t help but wonder:
“Do I look that miserable?”
“Did they sense this hollow space inside me?”
“Can they see how long I’ve been in survival mode?”
As I sat by the train window, I scribbled those two words into my journal: “Be happy.”
But even as I wrote them, I wondered…how do I grasp happiness when even love, in my world, takes the shape of grief?
I always feel happy when I teach children. It’s the only form of love that does not represent grief, pure, spontaneous, and without conditions. Their laughter doesn’t carry the weight of expectations, and their affection isn’t tied to past wounds. With them, I don’t have to prove my worth or hide my scars. I just get to be present, needed, and loved. In their world, healing happens quietly, in the middle of messy drawings, curious questions, and warm little hugs.
These photos were taken while I was teaching at one of the private schools in my city. We were decorating the classroom together, turning a blank space into something warm and full of life. I was at my happiest whenever I was with my students, their energy, curiosity, and laughter filled even the most ordinary days with meaning.
Each smile captured in these pictures reminds me why I chose this path. In those moments, I wasn’t just a teacher; I was someone they trusted, someone they ran to with stories, drawings, and sometimes even tears. And somehow, through all the chaos and crayons, they gave me a sense of purpose I didn’t know I was searching for.
I used to believe I was hard to love,
carrying silence like armor,
always a little too much or never quite enough.
But then I stood before children
messy, honest, unfiltered in their affection
and something softened.
It wasn’t that I was unlovable.
I just needed a love that didn’t ask me to shrink.
A love that saw through the quiet
and stayed anyway.
In their laughter, I found belonging.
In their trust, I found healing.
Teaching them, I began to relearn myself.