To My First Literary Encourager

Dear Teacher,

I wonder if you remember that day in JSS 3 when you changed the course of someone's entire life without even knowing it. I was one of your students then, just another face in a classroom full of rebellious teenagers, another name on your attendance sheet, another essay to grade in what must have been a daunting pile of assignments.

The task seemed simple enough: write about "My mother." I watched my classmates begin the way we'd all been taught, the way that felt safe and predictable: "The name of my mother is..." It was the formula we knew, the structure that had carried us through countless compositions before. But then you said something that shattered that comfortable predictability. You told us we could get creative.

Those words , "you can get creative" , stuck in the air like an invitation I'd never received before. Permission to break the mold, to step outside the lines we'd been taught to color within so carefully. I remember sitting there,my bic pen poised over my note, feeling something electric coursing through me. Here was my chance to do something different, something that felt authentically mine.

I had been learning new vocabulary in my phonics class, words that felt weighty and important rolling around in my mind. Words like "epitome" that seemed too sophisticated for a teenager's essay, too bold for someone like me to use. But in that moment of creative permission, I decided to be brave. I started writing, and instead of the expected opening, I began with something that surprised even me: "She's the epitome of both character and beauty."

What happened next was like watching magic sparkles from my own pen. The words poured out of me in ways they never had before. I wasn't just writing an essay anymore ,I was creating something, crafting something, building my world with language. I wrote about my mother, yes, but I also wrote about ideals and dreams, about the person she could be in the perfect world I was constructing with each sentence. I was doing what I would later understand all writers do: I was altering reality, shaping it to fit not just what was, but what could be.

Even as I was writing, I could feel something coming alive inside me. I started writing my diary when I was 8 and I had written countless of those “Aisha goes to school" stories. But this wasn't the mechanical exercise of putting words on paper to fulfill an assignment. This was expression. This was discovery. This was the first time I felt that intoxicating rush of creating something from nothing, of taking the raw material of thought and emotion and transforming it into something tangible, something that could move another person.

When I finally put my pen down, I was bedazzled by what I had produced. The essay sprawled across pages, filled with descriptions and metaphors that had seemed to emerge from some hidden part of myself. I had written so much, with such passion and detail, that I could hardly believe it had come from me. For the first time in my academic life, I had created something I was actually proud of, something that felt authentically mine rather than a pale imitation of what I thought was expected.

But the real Eureka moment came when you read what I had written. Your response wasn't just positive ,it was revelatory. When you told me how amazingly well I had done, when you praised the creativity and passion evident in every paragraph, you weren't just commenting on an assignment. You were seeing something in me that I hadn't even known existed. You were recognizing a writer before I had the courage to claim that identity for myself. What's more? You gave me the accolades in front of the entire classroom and I felt my confidence levels spike up, almost reaching the clouds.

That single moment of recognition became what I now think of as my fuel extractor ,the catalyst that unlocked reserves of creativity and confidence I never knew I possessed. Your words of encouragement didn't just make me feel good about one essay; they fundamentally changed how I saw myself and what I believed I was capable of achieving.

From that day forward, I began to understand what writing really was. It wasn't just about recording facts or following formula. It was about the power to reshape reality, to show people not just what is, but what could be. It was about taking the messy, complicated truth of life and refining it into something that could touch another person's heart, something that could make them see the world through new eyes. You taught me that writers are alchemists, transforming the lead of everyday experience into the gold of story and purpose.

In the years since that essay, I have carried your encouragement with me like a talisman. Every time I sit down to write, whether it's a letter or a story or a poem, I remember that moment when you saw potential in my work and weren't afraid to name it. I remember the way your praise felt like a door opening, like permission to explore parts of myself I had never dared to examine.

I want you to know that your impact extends far beyond that single assignment. You didn't just help me write a better essay about my mother ,though you certainly did that. You helped me discover that I had a voice worth listening to, stories worth telling, observations worth sharing. You showed me that creativity wasn't just allowed but celebrated, that taking risks with language and structure and content wasn't just acceptable but admirable.

I may not have three published books yet, though that dream burns in me still. I may not have my poetry featured on five hundred different websites, though I work toward that goal with every piece I write. But I have something perhaps more valuable than any external validation: I have the unshakeable knowledge that I am a writer, that this is not just something I do but something I am.

Every time I write a sentence that surprises me with its beauty, every time I find exactly the right word to capture a feeling I thought was impossible to express, every time I lose myself in the flow of creation , I think of you. I think of that day when you told a room full of students they could be creative, and one of them took that permission and ran with it as far as their imagination could carry them.

I ponder about how many students must have passed through your classroom over the years, how many essays you must have graded, how many young minds you must have touched. I wonder if you know how profoundly you affected at least one of them. I wonder if you realize that your willingness to encourage creativity rather than just conformity literally changed the trajectory of someone's life.

You probably don't remember me specifically ,I was just one of many eager faces looking up at you from behind cluttered desks. But I remember you with crystal clarity. I remember the teacher who saw something in a student's work that the student couldn't yet see in themselves. I remember the educator who understood that sometimes the most important lesson isn't about grammar or structure or following directions, but about having the courage to express what lives deepest in your heart.

As I continue on this writing journey, as I work toward those three books and five hundred published poems, I cuddle your belief in me like a sacred flame. On the days when the words don't come easily, when I doubt whether I have anything worth saying, I remember that moment when you looked at my work and saw not just an assignment completed, but a writer emerging. I remember that you believed in my potential before I even knew I had any.

Thank you for that belief. Thank you for seeing the writer in me before I could see it myself. Thank you for understanding that sometimes the most important gift a teacher can give is not just knowledge, but recognition ,the acknowledgment that a student has something unique and valuable to contribute to the world.

Thank you for being the first person to appreciate my writing, and for having the wisdom to tell me so. That appreciation became the foundation upon which I built my entire sense of myself as a creative person. It became the fuel that drives me still, years later, as I continue to explore what it means to be someone who streams thoughts into words, experiences into stories, observations into art.

You may never know the full extent of what your encouragement meant, but I wanted you to know that somewhere in the world, there is a writer who exists because you took the time to nurture a spark of creativity you saw flickering in a student's work. That writer thinks of you with profound gratitude every time they put pen to paper, every time they dare to be creative, every time they remember that they have something worth saying and the ability to say it well.

With boundless appreciation and respect,

That Student From Your English Class.