This isn’t about plaques, certificates, or LinkedIn applause. This is about the quiet, surprising, messy little moments that make teaching worth it — the invisible medals no one ever frames but everyone remembers.

I’m not some enlightened guru levitating above social media, exchanging blissful vibes with the universe. Far from it. My spiritual state is more like: half-awake, scrolling reels, draped in yesterday’s clothes, and whispering to the cosmos, “I also want a reward.”

Not a corporate trophy. Not a LinkedIn badge.
Just something that says: “Yes. You showed up.”

And if I’m honest — I want it. Shamelessly. Emotionally. Instagrammably.

Because here’s the thing about teachers: we give ridiculously huge parts of ourselves to a job that pays in hugs, sticky fingers, half-eaten biscuits, and whispered “I love you, Miss.” We pour soul, energy, muscle memory, and way too much caffeine into humans that will one day forget our names but remember our patience.

(Which — honestly — should be in the hall of fame.)

Teaching is not a job where you walk in, tack up a poster, and leave with a paycheck. It’s a profession of emotional gymnastics, unexpected crises, tiny victories that feel huge, and exhaustion disguised as purpose.

Some days I feel like an invisible magician.

You know—the kind whose performance is riveting, but the audience forgets to clap.

While the world celebrates big awards and shiny ceremonies, teachers quietly collect different medals — the ones calendar apps don’t track and certificates can’t hold. The smile from a kid who finally gets it. The freedom in a question asked out loud. The way a classroom hums when curiosity takes over.

So yes, on Instagram I see posts with confetti and applause for people getting recognitions. I scroll, maybe feel a twinge of envy, and then I breathe. Because my awards are not loud. They don’t need hashtags. They happen in moments like:

A child who runs up and throws both arms around my legs, fully committed, like I’m the entire universe.

A soft, honest “thank you” whispered when no one’s watching.

A scribbled drawing that basically says, “You mattered today.”

These are the medals I keep tucked in memory, not frames.

I’ve had certificates. Plenty. Workshops. Achievements. Enough bookmarks to wallpaper a tiny apartment. But I lost track of them somewhere between teaching circles and actual teaching — the heartfelt, chaotic, unforgettable kind. The kind where learning sticks, not the kind that collects dust.

Does that make me naïve? Maybe.
Arrogant? Nope.
Just faithful — faithful that what I do matters more than what I display on a wall.

The world of education often demands boxes ticked, hours logged, social media proof, and “impact metrics.” But let’s get real: classrooms don’t measure by metrics. They measure by moments. By hearts touched. By tiny, sacred connections that no platform can quantify.

So if anyone’s handing out real rewards — the ones shaped like laughter, gratitude, trust, and tiny arms wrapped around your legs — please send mine in eco-friendly wood, engraved with childlike honesty, and preferably presented by someone who still thinks magic is a normal thing.

Because those kinds of rewards?
They’re the real ones.