As the final semester of college loomed, Sophie found herself navigating the complex waters of class selection. She was relieved when I reassured her that a hefty course load wasn’t necessary. Her thoughts were consumed with the urgency of working as much as possible to save up for an independent life post-graduation. Juggling three part-time jobs, the idea of returning to her parents’ home, now occupied by her father in a cramped apartment after losing his job, and her mother, who was busy raising younger siblings, was simply not an option. “I’m just terrified I won’t have anywhere to go,” she admitted.
My heart ached for her. Sophie was a tenacious first-generation college student. The state university where I teach draws many ambitious individuals like her, who arrive with aspirations but also significant worries about finances and academic readiness. Coming from a rural school district that lacked resources, she had begun her journey without even knowing how to send an email. Yet, her passion for learning and hard work allowed her to catch up with her more privileged peers. She frequently expressed gratitude for the support I provided in class.
Over the years, our conversations revealed glimpses into our lives. When I discovered her hidden talent for singing, I mentioned my daughter’s budding interest in music. I shared my excitement when my daughter landed a role in a local production, and she reciprocated with stories of her own triumphs in high school theater, despite her mother’s initial indifference. “She didn’t even know I could sing,” Sophie remarked, recalling the moment her mother watched her performance with tears of pride streaming down her face.
I couldn’t fathom not acknowledging my daughter’s voice; she was always singing. Sophie may have kept her talent under wraps, but I recognized something profound. While there’s been much critique about overprotective parenting harming children’s independence, Sophie’s situation illustrated the opposite. Her parents, preoccupied with their own challenges, were unable to recognize her unique gifts.
In that moment, I longed to extend my home to her, to offer the care she deserved. I envisioned her as a big sister figure to my daughter, who was an only child. Yet, I understood this desire exceeded my professional role. As her professor and mentor, I was already guiding her toward a degree that, despite ongoing debates about student debt, remained a crucial stepping stone for a brighter future than the one her parents had. I didn’t need to act as a mother, but the impulse to nurture her was strong.
I told her how incredible she was, assuring her that her hard work and compassion would lead her to succeed. “Teaching you has been a gift,” I said, feeling tears well up. I knew the void she would leave would be immense.
As graduation approached, memories of Sophie and many other students I’ve grown close to over my decade of teaching flooded my mind. Each farewell is bittersweet, and despite the years, my connections with my students seem to deepen, almost maternal in nature (and indeed, I’m old enough to be their mother). I’ve listened to their stories about relationships, career anxieties, immigration challenges, and battles with mental health that no 22-year-old should have to face.
Yet, I also feel a profound pride in the remarkable young adults they’ve become. Many have achieved incredible accomplishments, winning national awards, gaining acceptance into prestigious graduate programs, and making strides in a competitive job market. I’ve witnessed their transformation from shy, self-focused teenagers into determined, mission-oriented reporters who inspire faith in the future of journalism.
I often joke, “I have one child, but then there are my students.” This parental analogy is tricky; I can’t truly be a mother to this broad, perpetually youthful group. After all, mothers don’t grade assignments or write recommendation letters.
Ultimately, I can’t claim the complexities of a genuine parent-child relationship. The student who confided in me about housing fears didn’t need another mother; she found her footing independently. Just before graduation, her mother surprised her by inviting her back home until she secured a job, which she did by the summer. A year later, she became a flight attendant—not the conventional path for a journalism graduate, but I couldn’t be happier for her. I delight in her Facebook posts showcasing her travels and the joyful moments with her mother.
Few actual mothers would tolerate the swift departures that occur on graduation day. Our college tradition features post-commencement receptions for graduates and their families, complete with a cake in school colors. Yet, hardly anyone attends amid the rush to leave town, leaving faculty members in a circle, munching on the overly sweet cake.
I try to not take these farewells to heart. I remind myself that there’s no better send-off than cheering my spirited students as they walk across the stage to receive their diplomas.
In a time when the value of a college education is scrutinized, with rankings like Payscale comparing campuses based on alumni earnings, I believe the emotional bonds formed between professors and students cannot be measured. For me, the worth is immense, and I hope my students share this sentiment.
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In summary, the graduation season brings bittersweet farewells for educators who form lasting bonds with their students. As they depart to forge their paths, the emotional connections and pride felt by teachers remain an invaluable part of the educational journey.
Keyphrase: Teacher student relationships
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