I watch them change. They arrive in the fifth grade—small, frightened, not understanding a single word. A year later, they are reciting poems in a language that, just a short while ago, seemed like complete gibberish to them. Their eyes light up. And as I stand by the blackboard, I think: *This is me. This is my work. This is mine.*

Last year, one girl said to me, "I want to be a teacher, just like you." I nearly burst into tears—not because I was flattered, but because I realized that I am passing on more than just a language. I am passing on something greater—much like how my mother once passed on her love of books to me, or how a teacher of mine once instilled in me a belief in myself.

I am not saving the world. I am not drafting laws. I simply stand at the blackboard and talk to children about literature. Yet, at times, it feels like the most important thing of all. Because they will grow up, and they will remember—not the dates or the rules, but the fact that, once upon a time, someone believed in them.

That is what inspires me. Not every single day—sometimes I’m so exhausted I can’t even bear to look at a notebook—but then I walk into the classroom, look into those eyes, and I remember why I am here.

And what inspires *you*? Not the grand, global things—but the simple ones. The things that are right there beside you.

Alexandra