She was the smallest student in my class, a little girl with brave eyes and a cough that never quite seemed to leave her. Most mornings, she walked in pale and tired, clutching a tissue and an oversized backpack filled with missed assignments. I tried to adjust everything for her—quiet corners to rest, extra time, lighter workloads, lessons recorded so she could listen from home. However, she never wanted pity; she only wanted to keep up, to belong, to learn like everyone else. One afternoon, as I knelt beside her desk, she whispered, “I might be sick a lot… but I’m not fragile.” In that moment, I realized I hadn’t been teaching her strength—she had been teaching it to me. And by the end of the year, I understood that resilience isn’t loud or dramatic; sometimes it’s a small girl who shows up anyway, doing her best on the days when simply being present is its own victory.
4” x 5”. Oil on 100% cotton paper.
She was the smallest student in my class, a little girl with brave eyes and a cough that never quite seemed to leave her. Most mornings, she walked in pale and tired, clutching a tissue and an oversized backpack filled with missed assignments. I tried to adjust everything for her—quiet corners to rest, extra time, lighter workloads, lessons recorded so she could listen from home. However, she never wanted pity; she only wanted to keep up, to belong, to learn like everyone else. One afternoon, as I knelt beside her desk, she whispered, “I might be sick a lot… but I’m not fragile.” In that moment, I realized I hadn’t been teaching her strength—she had been teaching it to me. And by the end of the year, I understood that resilience isn’t loud or dramatic; sometimes it’s a small girl who shows up anyway, doing her best on the days when simply being present is its own victory.
4” x 5”. Oil on 100% cotton paper.
