When I first started teaching, I thought I’d walked into a world of collaboration and support. (Cue laugh track. Clearly, I’d been watching too many teacher-inspiration movies.)
There was one teacher in particular everyone raved about. “She’s the best,” they said. “You’ll learn so much from her,” they said. And me? Bright-eyed, ready to soak up wisdom, I thought I’d found a mentor. Spoiler alert: nope.
Instead, I found myself starring in the longest-running reality show no one asked for: Teacher Wars: The Comparison Chronicles.
She was rigid – rules, control, order. Her students marched in line like little soldiers. Meanwhile, my classroom? A little more flexible. (Translation: students were actually allowed to think.) I let them solve math problems their own way, even if it didn’t involve the sacred ritual of “show your work.” Mental math? Sure. Creativity? Absolutely. And to her, that was practically sacrilege.
According to her, every student who left her classroom for mine would unlearn everything she’d drilled into them. (Yes, because apparently one year of me was enough to erase her life’s work. I must have been more powerful than I realized.) She seemed to have forgotten that I was preparing them for independence … for high school.
And here’s where it gets weirder. It wasn’t just about teaching. Oh no – competition extended to shopping. I once picked out a dress at one of my favorite clothing boutiques, had it in my hand, ready to buy. She just happened to be in this same boutique and swooped in with: “Please don’t buy that. I was thinking about getting it.”
Excuse me? First of all, you’re thinking about it – I’m already at the register. Second, we don’t even wear the same size. Third, even if we did wear it on the same day, do you really think the world would implode? (Note: the last time I checked, that boutique didn’t have a Hunger Games clause for dresses.)
I bought it anyway. Of course I did.
What struck me the most wasn’t just her rigidity or her shopping-policing, but the sheer energy she poured into being against me. Meanwhile, I was over here being nominated Teacher of the Year … year after year (three district wins, thank you very much). She won once. Not that I was counting. (Okay, maybe I was counting a little.)
Here’s the real takeaway: Some people don’t hate you because of what you’re doing wrong. They can’t stand you because you’re doing fine without their approval.
And honestly? That’s not my problem.
But when the tally came in, instead of clapping, smiling, or … oh, I don’t know – showing an ounce of grace, she waved it away as nothing more than a “popularity contest.”
Which is hilarious, because it wasn’t the students voting. It was other teachers. Other teachers. You know, her peers. Which kind of says: it wasn’t me who had the popularity. It was her who didn’t have the respect. (Ouch. Sorry, not sorry.)
And that whole “popularity contest” comment?
That was the moment everything snapped into focus.
Because remember — this woman had been at that school long before I ever set foot in the building. She’d built her routines, her reputation, her little empire of laminated charts and military-precision classroom management years before I showed up. I wasn’t even on her radar at first. I was the new kid. The rookie. The one who was supposed to watch, learn, and quietly absorb her wisdom.
Except … somewhere along the way, the dynamic shifted.
I was just trying to teach.
Trying to reach kids.
Trying to differentiate instruction without losing my sanity or my voice.
Trying not to drink my morning Sprite mixed with tears during planning period like every other newbie.
But she?
She was watching everything I did with the attention of a competitive figure skater judging her rival’s triple axel.
If I taught a lesson differently, she had something to say.
If a student loved my class, she had something to say.
If I wore a dress she liked or didn’t like, she definitely had something to say.
(To this day, I still laugh at the dress incident — like I was supposed to put it back because she wanted to “think about” maybe, possibly, someday purchasing it. Ma’am, this is not a joint custody situation. It’s a boutique.)
What I didn’t realize at first was that I wasn’t in a competition …
but she was.
Not because I was superior.
Not because I was trying to outshine her.
But because my existence disrupted whatever imaginary hierarchy she had created in her mind long before I arrived.
And so, year after year, when I kept being nominated for Teacher of the Year — and winning — it hit her pride harder than it hit my trophy shelf.
She won once.
I won three times.
(Not that I was keeping score. Except I was. Because I’m human and petty-adjacent when warranted.)
But according to her?
My wins were “just a popularity contest.”
Which was interesting…
because the votes came from other teachers.
You know, her colleagues.
The same people who saw both of us in action, day in and day out.
It wasn’t that I was popular.
It was that I was respected.
And those aren’t the same thing.
That was when I finally understood:
Some people don’t dislike you because of anything you’re doing wrong.
They dislike you because you’re doing just fine without their approval.
So I stopped worrying about her critiques, her comments, her comparisons.
I shifted all my energy back where it belonged: to the students.
They were my reason, my grounding, my compass.
And once I did that?
Her noise faded into the background like the faint hum of a fluorescent light you eventually stop hearing.
If you want the final punchline, here it is:
People only compete with you when they feel you’re competition.
When you’re minding your business, improving your craft, and staying in your lane — it drives some folks absolutely wild.
She stayed pressed.
I stayed progressing.
And honestly?
That’s the whole story.
My Voice Unchained 