Lesson Plans & Life Lessons

One of the biggest lessons in my adult life came in the form of a job I never wanted: teaching.

From a young age, I was certain I wanted to be a lawyer—nothing could deter me from that goal. But life took me on an unexpected detour. And if I’d had anything to do with it, I would have skipped that part entirely. In hindsight, though, that detour was exactly what I needed.

There was about a four-year gap between graduating from undergrad and starting law school. That gap was not part of my ten-year plan. But now I see how necessary it was. During that time, I worked as a teacher’s aide, a GED instructor at a prison, and eventually a 4th-grade English Language Arts teacher.

Let me be clear: teaching was literally the last job I ever wanted. I was in my mid-20s and didn’t think much about connecting with kids—outside of the ones in my own family (lol). I liked them, but I wasn’t exactly sold on the idea of teaching children I didn’t know.

And yet… there I was.

In my first and only role as a lead classroom teacher, I found myself being stretched in ways I couldn’t ignore. I had to challenge a lot of my ideas—about teaching, learning, and even myself. I was responsible for a classroom full of bright young scholars. Some grasped concepts easily. Others needed more support. I remember pouring everything I knew into those first few lessons—teaching my heart out. But most of my students weren’t understanding. They just weren’t picking up what I was putting down.

I would go home with pounding headaches, frustrated and confused. “Why aren’t they getting this?” I would ask myself. “This is easy stuff!”

Then came the pause—a quiet, reflective moment—followed by a gentle inner voice nudging me to open my heart to their world. To understand my role not just as a lecturer showing off all I’d learned as an English major (especially to 4th graders in rural Mississippi), but as a guide. My goal wasn’t to talk at them. It was to reach them.

So we got strategic. Working with the two senior ELA teachers on my team, we used our testing data to group students and create tiered instruction for our classes. I won’t sugarcoat it—it was hard. Across our three classes, we each had over 60 students with reading levels ranging from Pre-K to 8th grade. That was our first hurdle: understanding each child’s individual learning needs.

Then came the second: figuring out how they learned. Some were visual learners. Others were auditory, reading/writing-oriented, or kinesthetic. (Those are the four main learning styles, but they can be broken down even further.) Knowing how each child processed information helped me tailor lessons with multiple teaching methods.

Finally, I had to understand their lives.

An overwhelming of my students were facing heartbreaking challenges: some had lost a parent—or both. Some were caring for younger siblings. Others came from neglectful or abusive homes. Some had learning disabilities or had been held back. Some were quiet. Others were defiant. But all of them needed love and care.

This was a lot to take on, especially for someone who previously only had to think about children when babysitting for a few hours. But the role stretched me—even in areas I hadn’t started healing in myself. In doing so, it uncovered parts of me I didn’t know existed.

I had to let go of my ego and focus fully on helping each student make progress—progress defined by them, not just by test scores. Of course, I still had to prepare them for the state exam and routine bench mark testing. But beyond that, they taught me just as much as I taught them.

They taught me the value of seeing them as humans.

It might sound simple, but when I shared this idea with adults—especially those with children—they were confused. They thought I meant something I was never saying. But what I meant was this: Children deserve to express their feelings, even when it makes us uncomfortable. It doesn’t mean allowing disrespect. It means not policing their emotions just because they’re children.

I didn’t grow up with that mindset. In my world, kids were to be seen and not heard. Questioning adults was often considered disrespectful. But that year challenged every belief I had inherited. It opened my mind to learn from the very students I was there to teach.

I discovered that part of my role in ensuring their success wasn’t just about what I taught them, but how I made them feel. Empowered. Motivated. Seen.

Especially on testing days, this mattered most.

I carry those lessons with me, even now—in every interaction, especially in tense or challenging ones. It helps me pause, reframe my thinking, and approach people without assumptions. It allows me to meet people where they are.

I could go on and on about what they taught me—but that would be a book.

My hope is that, as much as I impacted their lives, they saw me in the midst of my own growth. I pray they don’t hold my shortcomings against me. I hope they felt loved and cared for. I hope they saw the love of God through me.

Even though many of their lives may look different today, I pray God meets them wherever they are and reminds them that He has good plans for their lives—a future and a hope.

–@juss.shayla (IG) / thebakinglawyer (tiktok)