During my maternity leave in 2019, I was hooked on the show “Jane the Virgin.” I loved it so much that I just started rewatching it while on my second round of maternity leave. If you’re unfamiliar with the show, in short, Jane becomes accidentally inseminated by the obgyn who should’ve been performing a well woman exam. It’s an adorably unique show.
Anyway, there’s a scene in one of the first episodes where Jane is asked what she wants to be in life.
Jane: “Am I practical or brave?”
Jane: “I’m a teacher.”
Jane: “I’m a writer. I have never said that out loud before.”
Rafael: “Be brave.”
The dreamy part of me instantly related. I think about how I’ve grown as a writer in the last year and a half alone, the risks I’ve taken, the vulnerability I’ve embraced. I blog on Tuesdays and actually click ‘publish!’ I draft poems and actually click ‘comment!’
Identifying as a writer was monumental for me – it still is a daily choice to believe and proclaim this confidently. It is brave to say “I am a writer” out loud.
Another piece of me, though, was a little offended. Walking into a classroom full of 14- and 15- year-olds as a 22-year-old armed only with skimpy teacher training is pretty damn brave.
Teaching is my calling. Teaching was my practical choice because it was all I ever wanted and imagined for myself. However, the thousands of decisions I make in the classroom, and the ways in which I have resisted then welcomed then embraced personal growth? BRAVE.