I used to think the job was to teach them to be paramedics. Scene safety. PPE. Skills. Directives. The right answers.
Turns out most of them don’t remember the right answers. But they remember how they felt when they got them wrong.
And so do I.
I’ve seen students break into tears mid-scenario. Heard the laughter that covers their panic. Watched someone stare at a mannequin’s chest like it held the answer to everything they’ve failed at.
It’s wild what they bring in with them. Grief. Debt. Kids. Divorce. Depression. Desire. People don’t show up to college empty.
Some days I honestly wonder why we pretend they do.
Teaching wasn’t supposed to be personal like this. But I keep catching glimpses of myself in them. Not in the successful ones. In the ones who think they’re not quite going to make it. The one’s who say “I can’t do this” when they think I’m not listening. The ones who say sorry too much. The ones who linger after class, quiet, and fidgeting, hoping I’ll say something that makes it all make sense.
But they’ve taught me more than I’ve ever taught them. They’ve taught me resilience. They’ve taught me what pressure looks like in someone who doesn’t know how to say they’re feeling fucked. They’ve taught me being calm is different than being fine, and that can be contagious. They remind me that they’re struggling to have the very things I have. They’ve taught me to stop pretending I’m fine, too.
Some of them taught me grace. Some taught me patience. Some taught me how to leave them alone when that’s what they needed most. One taught me how to ask for help. They didn’t know it. But I asked, eventually, because of them.
This isn’t a love letter to students. They frustrate me. They forget everything I say. They turn in lab manuals late. They goof off. They burn out.
And then they show up. Again and again and again. With a stethoscope, a question, and a deep, shaky breath.
And something about that teaches me to show up too.
