This year marks my 22nd year teaching middle school.

That’s 22 years of lesson plans, locker slams, hallway laughter, eye rolls, report cards, and trying to make a difference — even on the days when it felt like no one was watching. But nothing, and I mean nothing, prepared me for what happened yesterday. It might just be the most powerful, unforgettable day I’ve ever had as a teacher.

I decided to try a new classroom activity. Something different. Something meaningful. I called it “The Baggage Activity.”

I began by asking my students a simple question:

“What does it mean to carry baggage?”

Their answers came quickly — and honestly.
“It’s the stuff that hurts you.”
“Things that weigh on your heart.”
“Something heavy you can’t let go of.”
“It’s what people can’t see, but you still carry it.”

I nodded. Then, I handed each student a blank sheet of paper.

“Write down what’s hurting you,” I said.
“What’s heavy on your heart. What’s bothering you. What you’re afraid to say out loud. No names. Just truth.”

They wrote quietly. Heads down. No talking. Some paused. Some stared out the window. A few wiped away tears.

When they were finished, I told them to crumple their paper into a ball — and throw it across the room.

And they did.

What happened next changed everything.

Each student picked up one of the anonymous papers. Then, one by one, they read what someone else had written.

“My mom is in prison.”
“I miss my dad. He left us last year.”
“My brother is addicted to drugs.”
“I want to die.”
“My grandma just passed away. She was my best friend.”
“I cry every night and no one knows.”
“My pet gerbil died because he was fat.” (We smiled a little through the tears at that one.)

Some students cried while reading, overwhelmed by the pain their classmates carried. Others raised their hands to say, “That was mine.” And when they did, the room didn’t judge them. The room embraced them — with tears, nods, hugs, and words like “You’re not alone.”

I’ve never seen middle schoolers be more human. More raw. More compassionate.

It was emotionally draining. It was heavy. It was real.

But more than anything — it was healing.

At the end of class, I showed them the simple bag I now keep hanging by the door.

“This bag,” I said, “is here to remind us all: we carry pain. But we leave it here. We don’t carry it alone. We walk in this room together, and we carry each other.”

As they walked out, I reminded each one:

“You are loved. You are not alone. We have each other’s backs.”

There are days when teaching feels like a job.
Yesterday, it felt like a calling.

I am honored — truly honored — to be their teacher.

Credit to the rightful owner.