I Also Want a Reward (Shamelessly. Spiritually. Emotionally. Instagrammally.)

Okay, first of all:
I am not that enlightened spiritual creature who can meditate her envy into stardust and float above the Instagram feed like a yogi on a cloud of detachment.

Nope. Not there yet.

Because today, while I was having a nap (aka scrolling mindlessly on Instagram while pretending to rest), I found myself going down that sparkly rabbit hole of people receiving… yes, you guessed it…

REWARDS.
AWARDS.
CERTIFICATES.
PLAQUES.
HONOURABLE MENTIONS.
MEDALS FOR BASIC SURVIVAL WITH A RING LIGHT AND LINKEDIN PROFILE.

And somewhere between a dopamine scroll and a drool-on-the-pillow situation, I whispered to the universe:
I. ALSO. WANT. A. REWARD.

Because I do a good job. A damn good job, actually.
But instead of applause, I have a small human handing me a half-eaten biscuit saying, “Teacher, you are nice.”
And honestly? That’s the purest reward. But let’s also be real…

Yes. I’ll say it out loud:
I am envious of those people.

The ones getting all the shiny appreciation, the wows, the what-not, the public love letters of validation.
Sure, they might deserve the applause—but how many of them are actually in the field, doing the work, day after day, loving the mess, the madness, and the magic?

Because this job? This job is not easy.
It takes all of you—your soul, your nerves, your vocal cords, your sleep, your lower back, your left shoe (because you’ll never find it after outdoor play).

And still, people like me keep doing it.
Even when we feel like banging our heads against a wall.
Or howling like an angry forest wolf under a full moon.
(Ha!)

So yes, that little pinch of envy? It’s there.
Because we—the invisible, unheard, unpaid magicians—walk this earth on some strange, divine mission.
And we must make peace with that.

For us goddesses, the delicious ambrosia is in children’s smiles, their trust, their love.
It’s in that one sacred moment of connection that can’t be captured in a PowerPoint or certificate.

And if we really look at it—we’re the ones who can stand in front of a mirror and say:
“I am true to what I do.”

Even if we don’t wear makeup, heels, or polished perfection.
Even if our stories are not viral.
Even if the only “award” we get is sticky fingers and a whispered “I love you, Miss.”

We are the most loved teachers by the most honest hearts.
Even if just for a moment.

So who really wins?
The one with the gold medal on stage…
Or the one with ten tiny arms hugging her legs like she’s the Queen of the Universe?

I attended workshops. Oh, so many.
I got certificates too. Probably enough to wallpaper a small studio apartment.
But was I smart enough to collect them in a fancy folder with labels and page protectors and hashtags?
Nope. I was too busy actually working with children to run after the paperwork.

Now those certificates are either:

• Lost in the Bermuda Triangle of my old inboxes

• Used as bookmarks in dusty educational theory books

• Or simply known only to me and the air I breathe.
  No one else can confirm them. And the people who gave them? They barely remember why they gave them in the first place.

But why didn’t I collect them properly?
Maybe because I didn’t think proof of learning was more important than actual application of knowledge.
I thought what I do mattered more than what I could frame on my wall.
Was I wrong? Maybe.
Was I naïve? Possibly.
Was it arrogance? No. It was faith.

Faith that being a good teacher meant more than having a digital badge or a selfie from a “transformational” Zoom workshop where 90% of the time was spent saying “You’re on mute.”

And I’m not ashamed to say:
I agree with the fact that I am a damn good teacher.

Yes, I struggle to swim in this ocean of nonsense—
Where fancy terms drown real care.
Where child-led learning is replaced with curriculum-led chaos.
Where teachers are supposed to work like robots, paid in peanuts and “thank you” emails, while being expected to smile like Barbie with a PhD.

Meanwhile, I—and many others like me—pour our hearts, our souls, and often our own money into creating joyful, meaningful experiences for children.
But where’s the applause? Where’s the stage?
Where’s the LinkedIn post with 1,000 likes?

Well, turns out… you gotta market yourself.
You gotta dance the dance. Post the post. Show the badge. Smile at the committee like you’re in a toothpaste ad.

But you know what?

I didn’t build my career by shouting on social media.
I didn’t think showing certificates was more powerful than showing results in children’s eyes.
Turns out, I realised this game too late.
I’m nearly 50. The music is changing, and the dance floor is slippery.
But here I am, still dancing. Still teaching. Still refusing to sell out.

So yes, I accept that the system doesn’t care about unframed genius or quiet impact.
And still—I’ll keep doing my best.
Even without diplomas, without media posts, without awards, and without medals (unless a 5-year-old gives me one made of Play-Doh and glitter, which honestly feels more real).

Sure, I’ve had a few real achievements. But I didn’t care to show them.
Because I believed—foolishly or not—that what you do means more than what you post.

But hey. If anyone’s handing out rewards for:

• surviving glitter explosions

• designing meaningful play

• refusing to bow to nonsense

• and keeping it real with a smile and a song

Please let me know.

Because I’d like mine in wood, eco-friendly, shaped like a heart, and preferably handed over by a child who thinks I’m magic.

And maybe—just maybe—I’ve already been getting the realest rewards all along.

Like when they come running to me, arms wide open, saying:
“I love you, Miss.”
Like when they cling to me with their whole little selves,
whispering their tiny, sacred, beautiful secrets into my ear.

Maybe that’s the biggest reward of all.
And you know what? I’ll take that over any medal, any day.