I’ve been wanting to write this letter for years. But as I sit at a physical education conference for the second time this year, despite not being a teacher and always having wanted to be one, I have come to realise that your effect on me will last a lifetime.
I’d like to think we were the reason why you quit your job. I know that sounds crazy, so let me add some context for those who didn’t witness the most talented physical education class to ever grace an independent public school. One of my earliest memories of being in your class is this simple question: “why on earth haven’t you done anything else with your life?” It was a very intense question to get in the second week of term, but we were an incredibly inquisitive senior class. You had just finished telling us how you went through high school, university and then into a teaching job without a single break between. No gap year, no Europe trip, nothing. We couldn’t believe it. Here was this incredibly energetic young lady and she was wilting away in a classroom, stressing over the kids who would never believe that academic achievements are worth their effort, and competing alongside our class more than controlling it. I think she turned down a basketball scholarship overseas despite her relatively short stature, and when basketball featured in the curriculum, we witnessed how much of a sacrifice that was. But it wasn’t just her presence that inspired me in particular; it was her relentless enthusiasm, her passion, and most of all, her unapologetic competitiveness.
It didn’t matter what sport it was. We were exposed to a variety of games, and now that I understand the key learning objectives from behind the scene, I can see how advanced our learning was. More importantly, at no stage throughout my senior schooling experience was I told that I couldn’t do something. Whether it was learning a new sport, revisiting a sport that we played endlessly in the primary school playground or attacking at the volleyball net (which I cannot reach the top of while standing still), there was always something to challenge us. Even the classroom featured heated debates, candid presentations, and some very serious discussions about coaching styles and communication which I incorporate in my work today. If it wasn’t for the depth of our learning, I would have never pursued exercise science in university but interestingly, she always wanted more from me than to become a classroom teacher. I could never understand why, because I could see the influence she was having on us.
I have only realised how empowering this experience was in the last few years of my life, where I’ve ambitiously applied for jobs, unexpectedly landed a PhD scholarship and played five different winter sports in the last four years. I cannot remember a time when she did anything half-heartedly, and I’ve modelled that for every moment since graduating high school. I’ve been told that I can be too much to handle and probably have a very strong case of white line fever, but I’ve never felt the need to apologise for those things. Yes, it has meant that I don’t necessarily fit in with every team I’ve played in, but that hasn’t stopped me from supporting them. That was the other lesson I learned from this incredible role model: always be a support option, in any aspect of life.
We talk about the effect that educators can have on students if they have a poor experience in maths or science, growing up with fear and lack of self-efficacy that follows them like a shadow through adulthood. But the conversations are now starting to focus on the people who inspired us, who pushed us to be better, who challenged us inside the classroom and beyond it. So thank you, for ensuring that I always approach a problem with a growth mindset and a fierce soul which is ready to rise to the challenge. One day, I’ll come back to that classroom as a teacher myself, but until then, I’ll keep tackling this PhD as fiercely as possible, because there’s no way you’d accept anything less.
Neither will I.