My heart wasn’t broken; Just a little bent

Michelle and Sandra are sisters in 6th grade at a middle school tucked inside an urban pocket of Colorado—a place where everyone knows your name, and the community still feels small despite the city skyline in the distance. Michelle has been fighting recurrent cancer with more courage than most adults can fathom. Months of chemotherapy have taken her hair, her energy, and far too many childhood moments. To protect her privacy and to feel a little more like herself, she wears a wig to school each day.

Sandra, her sister, is a student with an intellectual disability. She sees the world with a simplicity and kindness we could all learn from. She adores Michelle—everyone knows that.

The girls share the same class, and on what began as an ordinary day, Sandra reached across her desk for a pencil. Her sleeve accidentally caught the edge of Michelle’s wig. In one unthinking movement, it slipped off and fell to the floor.

Everything stopped.

Michelle’s hand flew to her head as her face flushed with embarrassment. Sandra froze, horrified, and within seconds tears were streaming down both girls’ cheeks. Twenty other sixth-graders looked on, unsure of what to do with the raw, unexpected vulnerability unfolding in front of them.

And in that moment, all I wanted to do was sit on the floor and cry with them.

These are the parts of adulthood no one prepares you for—the moments where your heart breaks for a child and you must find the strength to be steady, compassionate, and calm all at once.

I called their mom to let her know what had happened, reassuring her that both girls were safe and that the moment was an accident wrapped in love. Then I sat down on the floor with the sisters—eye level, no desks, no barriers—and we talked. We talked about accidents. We talked about love. We talked about courage, the kind you don’t choose but rise to anyway.

And in trying to offer them comfort, I heard myself say something I had never imagined saying in my entire professional life:

“If you want, I will shave my head tonight.”

The room went silent. Michelle blinked through her tears. Sandra looked up, startled but comforted. In that moment, I wasn’t a teacher or an administrator—I was a human being sitting beside two hurting children.

I didn’t make the offer to be dramatic. I made it because sometimes the most powerful thing we can do is stand with someone in their vulnerability. Sometimes kindness isn’t convenient—it’s sacrificial. And sometimes children need to know, without question, that adults will show up for them in ways that matter.

That day reminded me that schools are more than classrooms and lesson plans. They are places of heart work. Places where courage is contagious. Places where empathy becomes action.

Michelle looked up at me, eyes shining with tears, and said gently that she didn’t want anyone else to lose their hair.

What we learned:

• We learned that empathy is powerful.
• We learned that vulnerability can create connection.
• We learned that standing with someone in their hardest moments matters more than any lesson in a textbook.
• We learned that courage isn’t always loud—sometimes it’s the quiet choice to show love, even when it costs you something.
• We learned that the most important lessons aren’t written in any curriculum: choose kindness, stand with others, and let empathy guide your actions.
• We learned that those lessons—more than any academic standard—can truly change the world.