Photograph by Marvel/ Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures/ Everett
Story Time
Before I tell you this story, say after me:
“I read, but I don’t judge.”
No?
Okay… we’ll circle back to that later.
A Classroom That Tested My Sanctification
Years ago, while teaching at a middle school, I had that class.
You know the one; the class that makes you question your calling, your patience, and occasionally your salvation.
That week in particular had been enormously difficult. The students wouldn’t listen. They yelled across the room. Objects were thrown. Side conversations were louder than my actual instruction. Chaos was the curriculum.
Unsurprisingly, their academic performance reflected it; it was poor.
What made it worse was the effort behind the scenes. I spent hours crafting lessons for a class that seemed deeply committed to not cooperating. And that kind of frustration hits differently when you genuinely care about learning.
Grades Over Growth (A Personal Pet Peeve)
What I also noticed was that they were very grades-driven. If the work wasn’t graded, they were suddenly allergic to it. Learning itself didn’t seem to matter, only the score.
As someone who actually enjoys learning (yes, we exist), this was disheartening.
The Lesson That Never Stood a Chance
One day, I came to work convinced I had prepared a stellar lesson. And when I say stellar, I mean:
- Individual work
- Collaborative moments
- Movement (because middle schoolers cannot sit still, no matter how much you ask)
- A reflective exercise
It was thoughtful. Engaging. Balanced. Honestly? I deserved an award.
And then… Roger happened.
Roger, the class clown. The instigator. The CEO of Chaos Incorporated.
He started a squabble with another student. Then two got involved. Then three. And before I knew it, nearly ninety percent of the class had RSVP’d yes to the madness.
Everything came crashing down.
When Frustration Turns Petty (Briefly)
I left work that day exhausted and dejected. If I’m honest, I contemplated my life choices.
Maybe this wasn’t for me.
Maybe I should work in an industry where people are quieter.
Like libraries. Or caves.
Like many teachers across the globe, I took the stress home with me. I barely slept because my mind was busy strategizing, or, if we’re being completely transparent, plotting. I had had enough.
And somewhere in the wee hours of the night, inspiration struck.
Aha!
I would give them so much work the next day that silence would be inevitable. No talking. No collaboration. Just evaluation. Everything I’d taught so far, and research for what they didn’t know.
Compliance through exhaustion.
That would teach them.
I smiled as I rolled over in bed, pleased with what I believed was a brilliant plan for revenge.
And God Said, “Not Today”
The next morning, I rushed to get ready, replaying my plan with great enthusiasm. I left early to ensure flawless execution.
But as I walked downstairs, on the fourth step, I missed my footing.
I twisted my ankle, and it felt like a rubber band stretched and then aggressively snapped back into place.
The pain was immediate and rude.
I cried out, fell to the ground, and quickly learned that walking was no longer on the agenda. Tears flooded my cheeks as I attempted to hobble toward my car, gripping the railing like my life depended on it.
Plot twist: it was my right leg, the one I drive with.
Instead of heading to work, a friend drove me to the hospital.
Diagnosis: a sprained ankle.
When Plans Fail Spectacularly
That single step took me out for weeks.
Crutches. Orthopedic therapy. Time off work. My revenge plan? Completely canceled.
While stuck at home, learning how to walk again and depending on others for help, patience, and grace, I had time; lots of it, to reflect.
And that’s when it hit me.
My heart posture was off.
The goal had shifted. It wasn’t about learning anymore. It was about control. About payback. About getting even.
I still needed to keep the standard high without compromising on my core values. The Kaycia who wanted revenge was not the Kaycia I wanted to be. I felt horrible.
What Revenge Taught Me
Here’s the truth I had to face:
You can wrap bad intentions in professionalism and call it discipline, but motives matter. If the motive is impure, the whole thing is a performance.
That season exposed a part of me that needed refining. Instead of slowing down, asking better questions, or holding myself accountable, I chose the easier route.
Revenge.
Ironically, it was also the most expensive one.
The Quiet Question We All Have to Ask
Sometimes, the greatest lessons aren’t taught in classrooms, but in forced stillness, discomfort, and unexpected detours.
That fall didn’t just injure my ankle.
It exposed my heart.
And it left me with a question I still carry:
What is driving my response, growth, or retaliation?
Because one leads to healing.
And the other always sends the bill (In my case, it came from the doctor’s office).
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