As far back as I can remember, I’ve always known I was meant to teach. Even as a little girl, I’d gather my dolls and teach them how to draw flowers and butterflies. Later on, my friends would often ask me to explain tricky topics, and I felt an incredible rush of joy when I saw the light of understanding spark in their eyes.
When I graduated with honors in Graphic Design, I didn’t even consider other paths—I immediately applied for a teaching practicum. My portfolio was bursting with creative projects, and my professors wrote such glowing recommendations that I’d blush just reading them over.
Of course, I knew my delicate appearance and gentle nature might work against me. So, I spent hours poring over pedagogy books, studying modern teaching methods, and trying to understand student psychology. I was determined to prove to everyone—and most of all to myself—that I could be a great teacher.
But I had no idea how much my first assignment would change my life, or how one cocky student would force me to rethink everything I thought I knew.
***
I nervously adjust the white strands of my hair, studying my reflection in the mirrored doors of the dean’s office. My petite frame in a strict lavender suit looks far too young to be a university instructor.
Maybe I should’ve worn something more serious? The thought flickers through my mind, but it’s too late to turn back now.
The doors to the dean’s office swing open, releasing the lively buzz of student life into the hallway.
“Come on in, Sabrina,” says Dr. Ingrid Peterson, the department chair, with a warm smile. “We’ve been expecting you.”
The spacious office smells of coffee and fresh flowers. A few other faculty members are seated at the table, eyeing me with curiosity.
“As we’ve discussed, you’ll be doing your practicum with third-year students in an experimental course,” Dr. Peterson begins, pausing for effect. “We’ve decided to introduce an additional design class to foster creative thinking among the students. This is a very… unique cohort, especially group D-31. They’re talented, but sometimes a bit too full of themselves. Still, a creative subject like this might just be the thing to channel their energy in the right direction.”
I feel my heart pick up speed. At twenty-three, I’m only a few years older than the students I’ll be teaching.
“I can handle it,” I say firmly.
“Oh, we have no doubt,” Dr. Peterson replies with an encouraging smile. “Your portfolio is impressive, and your recommendations are stellar. Just… be prepared for some students to test your limits.”
At that moment, loud laughter echoes from outside the window, and I can’t help but turn my head. In the university courtyard, a group of students is engaged in a heated discussion. Among them stands a tall guy with messy dark hair, passionately arguing his point with animated gestures.
“Ah, I see you’ve already noticed Nazar Yaroshchuk,” one of the instructors remarks. “He’s in D-31. Let’s just say… he’s a challenging student.”
I feel my cheeks flush. For some reason, this moment feels oddly significant—like a foreshadowing of something extraordinary in my life.
“Irene, why bring up Yaroshchuk right away?” a friendly male voice chimes in. “The kid might be a handful, but he’s got talent. No need to scare our newcomer off before she even starts.”
“Alright, enough chit-chat,” Dr. Peterson concludes, rising from her seat. “Sabrina, your first class is tomorrow at nine. You’ll get the schedule and teaching materials from the curriculum coordinator. And remember—we’re all here to support you.”
I nod and leave the office, clutching my folder of documents tightly to my chest.
The hallway echoes with the sound of student voices, and I try to picture myself standing in front of these young people tomorrow. Somewhere among them will be that dark-haired guy whose gaze I caught through the dean’s window.
The office doors suddenly open again, and Dr. Peterson steps into the hallway. Her face shows a hint of concern.
“Sabrina, hold on a second,” she says, gently taking my arm and guiding me aside. “I’ll walk you to the coordinator’s office, but first, I want to add something.”
We stroll down the hallway, and I notice how carefully she chooses her words.
“You see, about Nazar Yaroshchuk…” She stops and looks me straight in the eye. “He’s truly a gifted student, one of the best in his year. But sometimes, his behavior can be… unpredictable. If any issues come up, please don’t hesitate to come to me directly.”
“Are you trying to scare me?” I ask with a small smile.
“Oh, no, not at all!” Dr. Peterson waves her hand dismissively. “I just want you to know you’ve got support. Though I’m confident there won’t be any major problems. Nazar might test you, but he’s not a bad guy. He just… needs a special approach.”
We reach the curriculum coordinator’s office, and I feel a tight knot forming in my stomach. What’s so unique about this Nazar Yaroshchuk that even the department chair feels the need to warn me personally?
The coordinator turns out to be a young man in his thirties with curly blond hair and a friendly smile. He immediately offers me coffee while he searches for the necessary documents.
“This is Gary Michaels,” Dr. Peterson introduces him. “He’s new here, but already indispensable. Gary, please make sure Sabrina has everything she needs.”
“Of course,” he nods, pulling a folder from a cabinet. “Don’t worry, we’ll get everything sorted out. By the way, I started with a practicum too, so I totally get how you’re feeling.”
His calm, confident tone eases my nerves a bit. At least here, in the coordinator’s office, I feel safe.
Gary hands me a stack of papers and a USB drive with materials.
“Here’s the curriculum, teaching guidelines, and presentations for your first classes. If you need anything else, I’m always around.”
I thank him and step into the hallway. Just outside the door, I overhear Dr. Peterson quietly say to Gary:
“Gary, please keep an extra eye on her. She’s completely green. Her paperwork looks good, but we all know paperwork is just paperwork.”
I pretend not to hear, though the words sting my pride.
I grip the folder tighter and hurry toward the exit.
What a piece of work!
Alright then! I’ve got a long evening of prep ahead for my first class, and I’m going to prove to them all that I’m worth more than just “good paperwork.”
_______________
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