To the Teachers, Homeschoolers, Librarians, and Educators

Thank You for Holding Children’s Confidence

I came across a Student of the Month card my elementary school teacher gave me when I was in fifth grade the other day.

And it’s been weighing on me.

I’ve been thinking about the true impact good teachers, as well as not so great teachers, have had on my life. And beyond that, I’ve been thinking about other adults who don’t get named enough. The ones who deeply impact children.

Not the ones who get called first.
Not the ones whose last name the child shares.
Not the ones who take credit for who the child becomes or how successful they are.
Not even the ones who show up in holiday photos or family greeting cards.

But the ones who sit in the same room as a child, day after day. Invisibly shaping how that child sees themselves for the rest of their life.

Some of the most important people in a child’s life don’t tuck them in at night.
They don’t always know what’s happening at home.
They don’t always get updates when something big happens.

And still, they notice.

They notice when a child stops raising their hand.
When they become quieter.
When their voice shrinks.
When curiosity turns into cautiousness.
When confidence starts to break.

This blog post is to you.

To the Ones Who Are Patience

To the teachers who pause and reflect instead of pushing or enforcing.

To the librarians who don’t rush a question or get annoyed, even when there’s a line behind them.

To the homeschool parents who choose presence over institutional pressure, even when that pressure would be easier.

I just want to say thank you.

And not in a plaque on the wall way.
Not in an end of the year card way.

But in a plain, human, heartfelt way.

Because what you build in a child is delicate.
And important.
And people need to see that value.

Confidence Is Fragile

Confidence is built quietly.
And broken in the same way.

When we are little children, confidence isn’t some big, bold thing. It’s fragile.

We begin with undeniable confidence because we haven’t yet soaked up the world and all it can be.

Then comes the growing period.

Confidence grows in moments like being allowed to try again. Being listened to without interruption. Being believed. Being told, take your time, it’s okay, I am here for you.

It doesn’t take as much to break confidence as it does to build it.

I don’t know why, but the bad words tend to stick harder than the good ones.

One rushed sigh.
One eye roll.
One sarcastic comment.
One look that says, “you should know this by now”.

Those moments can crack something fragile.

Most educators don’t mean to do harm. I truly believe that. But the impact can still land that way.

And the opposite lands too.

A teacher saying, “You're closer than you think.”

“Let’s look at this in a different light.”

A librarian remembering a child’s favorite author or their name.
A homeschool teacher and parent saying, “Let’s figure this out together. Show me how you would solve this.”

Those moments stay.

Years later, when the facts have blurred.
When the classroom is no longer relevant.
When the worksheets are long gone.
What remains is the feeling.

I was safe here.
I was capable here.
I mattered here.

That’s a lot to carry.

You Are Not Meant to Be Everything, And Still You Show Up

I want to be careful here, because educators hear this tension all the time.

You are not meant to replace parents.
You are not meant to fix broken systems.
You are not meant to be everything for a child.

And still, many of you hold that space.

Even though it wasn’t included in the job description.
Even though you may not have been prepared for it.

Somewhere in your heart, you do.

Because you care.

You are often the first adult who models consistency.
The first adult who follows through.
The first adult who believes a child when they speak.
For some children, you are the first adult who says, “I see you”, and means it.

That doesn’t show up in lesson plans.
It doesn’t count toward grading metrics.
It doesn’t get measured.

But it changes lives.

And it counts.

The Learning Privilege That Shaped Me

This part always feels tender to write.

I grew up with my great grandmother, and she taught me how to read and write early on. More importantly, she allowed me to express creativity young.

I could pick out books.
Choose toys.
Start craft projects.

There was repetition.
There was patience.
There was growth.

I remember playing memory games with her at my little kid table. It was fun, but it was also bonding. A real life brain teaser wrapped in love.

When I finally entered school, I didn’t feel behind.

I felt ready.

Not because I was exceptional, but because I was supported.

I know more deeply now that not every child gets that foundation.

Some children walk into classrooms already bracing themselves. Already afraid of being wrong. Already carrying fear that doesn’t belong to them.

Naming that difference matters.

Confidence is innate, but it’s nurtured.

It comes from trying, failing, trying again, and knowing you are still okay.

What Homeschooling and Libraries Taught Me

Watching homeschool families taught me something too.

My childhood neighbors were homeschooled, and I didn’t understand it at first.
But I noticed how they learned.

There was curiosity without panic.
Exploration without embarrassment.
Space to ask questions without being rushed.

They learned at the pace of attention, not a bell or clock.

I noticed their family bond too. Learning wasn’t separate from connection, it was the foundation of it.

This isn’t about one system being better than another. It’s about recognizing that learning flourishes when intention, flexibility, and trust are present.

Educators make that possible.

Libraries were my safe space, and still are.

They were one of the first places I felt fully allowed to be myself.

I didn’t feel rushed.
No one made me feel silly for asking questions.

Silence wasn’t punishment. It was respected.
Librarians understand something not enough spaces do.

Curiosity doesn’t always arrive loudly.
Sometimes it arrives slowly.
Unsure.
Wrapped in hesitation.

That deserves space too.

Librarians, if no one has told you lately, you are guardians of belonging and self discovery.

You may never know it.

But you are remembered.

The Core of Always There, Rocking Chair

I wrote Always There, Rocking Chair (my debut children’s picture book) thinking about you.

As a sensitive read aloud.
As a story that doesn’t demand attention, but earns it.
As a reminder that presence matters, even when it’s quiet.

Most books about gratitude or comfort rely on expressive characters.
They over explain feelings, model behavior, or resolve a problem.
My story centers an object that does not speak, perform, or demand attention.

That choice was intentional and rare.

The rocking chair represents steadiness, reliability, and quiet support.

It shows that something does not have to be animated or expressive to be meaningful.
This mirrors the experience of many children and adults who have felt unseen, and misunderstood yet still carry strength and resilience.

As educators, you’re not just holding books.

You’re holding futures.

And I wanted to say thank you.

Friend to friend.

Key Takeaways (for the 1-minute readers)

• Educators shape confidence in ways that last a lifetime.

• Encouragement from non parents deeply impacts who a child becomes.

• Early literacy support is a privilege worth naming.

• Hands on, gentle learning nurtures curiosity and confidence.

• Intentional, consistent effort changes lives.

Thanks for sitting with me awhile.

Until next time my friend,

Tybre’ana