Welcome to the "real" world
Did we ever really leave the classroom? A reflection on teaching, leaving, and what stays with us.
In the gardens of our minds walks a teacher or two whose philosophies and approaches rooted themselves deep into the folds of our developing brain. Over time, they’ve sprouted and blossomed into words, actions or thoughts, guiding you to this very day. When I ask you to recall a memorable moment in your education, does a specific experience bloom in your memory? Or, perhaps, the memory of a teacher, or even fellow student, shows up day after day as the gardener that has helped shape the path you take?
For me, it was two teachers: my second grade teacher Miss Kelly and my middle school English literature teacher / eighth grade homeroom teacher Mr. Onofrey. Miss Kelly was a musician; Mr. Onofrey, a storyteller. Miss Kelly’s classroom overflowed with artistic projects, musical instruments and the pulse of her drum as she taught us number sequences or introduced us to movements and beats from around the world. Mr. Onofrey’s space was lined with academic literature and shiny Mac desktops. He was the first teacher who challenged us to think about what we wrote, not just comprehensively, but philosophically, reflectively. Above his chalkboard, where he’d break down the syntax and grammar of sentences, hung a quote I’ll never forget: “Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them.”
Mr. Onofrey read us books throughout our time together in English. In sixth grade, it was The Giver and I Am Rosemarie, and by eighth, we were sitting at our desks awaiting him to begin Brave New World right in the middle of our Catholic school day, sunlight slanting in across our desks like it had no idea what we were about to hear. He didn’t censor. He didn’t warn. He just opened the spine of that dystopia like a gardener turning soil, planting questions no one else dared to ask. That was the first time I felt like a teacher was cultivating not just our comprehension, but our consciousness. He wasn’t instructing us. He was trusting us. Trusting that we could handle uncertainty. That we could grow in wild directions. It was the most adult I had ever felt in a room lined with rules and roots.
The common thread between them was not just their relentless passion to be themselves and to help tend to our growth, but the physical space of their classrooms was alive. Plants, flowers and herbs spilled from every shelf growing in the very places our minds were also expanding. We learned surrounded by life.
To teach is to care for a delicate ecosystem. A classroom isn’t just a space for memorizing facts and equations. It’s where small humans begin to interpret their surroundings, make sense of a confusing world and figure out how to find their place in it by solving problems, not just academically, but socially and emotionally as well.
Despite its profound impact, education is often dismissed as a second-tier profession. Teaching isn’t seen as serious work as it’s rarely viewed as lucrative, prestigious, or socially elevated. Maybe it’s because the job happens inside a school, a place too many people associate with immaturity. I’ve even heard it said: “Teachers don’t grow up. Teaching is just high school all over again.”
I remember being a student myself, annoyed and angsty, arrogantly asking the teachers around me: How is this going to help me in the real world? Will this class teach me how to do my taxes, prepare for a job interview or build a personal brand? Thank god I know that mitochondria is the powerhouse of a cell- that’s very relevant to my life, thank you very much.
I can’t help but reflect on these questions as I read about the proposed $163 billion dollar cut to higher education and his persistent dismantling of the Department of Education. These aren’t just numbers. They’re a direct hit to the very programs that support not just underserved communities but the everyday person as well. It’s not just marginalized communities, or the other, that loses from this. It’s all of us.
The question that keeps coming to my mind every time I come face to face with this information echoes the persistent question that I keep hearing: What is the real value of school? Of teaching?
As if those who impose such cuts and belittle this profession have forgotten that they were once students themselves: small developing minds and little bodies sitting at a tiny desk, full of questions and wonder, guided and, yes wholly dependent on someone whose job it was to help them make sense of the world.
Just because the bells ring, classes end, diplomas are earned and handed out doesn’t mean the teaching stops. Did you ever really stop learning as you climbed through your career, changed departments or offices?
I worked at a prestigious international school that prided itself on catering to high-profile parents. Its mission was to build a community rooted in a holistic curriculum and Christian values. In a way, wasn’t that just a brand story? A carefully curated message, like any company marketing a product as meaningful to drive engagement and loyalty?
And yet, I left teaching.
Not because I stopped believing in it. But, because I came to the painful realization that I was not the right person to do it.
When I moved into the tech world, I stepped into a newly built department — one rooted in the same educational skills I’d cultivated during my years in the classroom. I couldn’t help but wonder: how different was onboarding a new client from teaching a one-hour lesson? Instead of explaining how to solve a math problem or craft an introductory paragraph, I was now guiding someone through how to use a product.
On my first day, a friend, and colleague from one of our sister companies, greeted me with a fist bump and said, “welcome to the real world kiddo.”
The words stuck with me.
At the moment, the words didn’t really sink in. I was so elated and thrilled to be someplace new, somewhere that was outside of the classroom that I laughed and agreed. But the question kept nagging at me long after the moment passed. I want to go back in time to ask him what he meant by that. What does “the real world” even mean?
Is it revenue streams, product launches, and financial reports? KPIs, which we call targets in the educational world, or ticking things off your agenda before a meeting? How do you define something that has so many textures and layers? Is it not like saying one’s perspective is real and the other perspective is not? The educational and academic world changes you- even when you graduate from it.
Because that’s the realization I’ve come to. You may have graduated from school but you don’t leave the classroom. You still collaborate, break big concepts into manageable tasks, mentor new folks on your team, research for a new proposal, investigate data and explore… still planting, tending and growing.
You didn’t leave the classroom and the classroom didn’t disappear.
The classroom just grew larger, wilder, a bit less predictable.
But, still, always, a place where things grow.