I teach third grade. One student always drew ugly pictures of me—big teeth, wild hair, deep wrinkles. Other teachers laughed, “She’s mocking you!”
I kept them anyway.
On the last day of school, her final drawing made me freeze.
She drew me with a bright yellow halo over my head.
I knelt beside her desk and asked gently, “Why the halo?”
She shrugged, like it was obvious. “Because you’re my safe place.”
I didn’t know what to say.
She pointed to the messy hair she always drew. “That’s when you stay late and don’t fix it because you’re helping us.”
The big teeth? “That’s your big smile when I get things right.”
The wrinkles? “That’s when you look worried… like when I come in sad.”
My throat tightened.
She told me her house was loud. Doors slammed. People yelled. But in my classroom, it was quiet. Predictable. Kind.
“I draw you how I see you,” she said simply.
All year, I thought she was making fun of me.
She was trying to capture me.
After she left, I gathered every single drawing she’d made and placed them carefully in a folder. Not because they were flattering—but because they were honest.
Sometimes, the way children see us isn’t what we expect.
It’s something much deeper.
And if we’re lucky, we get to see ourselves through their eyes—even if it takes a whole year to understand.
