Teachers Are Changing Lives - Here’s Why I’m Telling Their Stories

Teachers are changing lives and it’s time the world heard how.

When I was in school, I was the kind of student who slipped through the cracks. I didn’t revise. My attendance was poor. Yet I ticked the boxes for a lot of my teachers: I handed in homework, I hit my targets, so no one thought to look closer. I was the spunky smart kid with a spark of soft rebellion, and that was it. But inside, I was angry and confused; constantly measuring myself against my straight-A friends and always coming up short.

What I didn’t know back then was that I was an absentee student: a label that closed doors before I even had the chance to walk through them. That reality left me scrambling for opportunities later in life, chasing validation, desperate to prove I was worth something. There was this flaming hot fire under me to ‘catch up’ with my peers and access a lifestyle I could only really dream of. But that fire didn’t come from insecurity. It was lit by two teachers who saw me when I didn’t see myself:

Mr. Rowley.

Mr. Sinclair.

Their influence made me want to advocate for myself the way they advocated for me when I didn’t know how. And they’re just the start of why we’re here.

At fifteen, sitting in physics class, I may as well have been listening to an alien language. ET could phone home and he still wouldn’t have been able to translate it for me. Nothing made sense. But I wasn’t about to raise my hand and admit it because that kind of vulnerability was terrifying. So I sat at the back, staring into space, checked out completely.

My practice exams came back on target, so most teachers would’ve let me coast. I had the blessing and curse of being a student who could get Bs with very little effort, and for years of my education, no one questioned anything. But Mr. Rowley did.

He didn’t just accept my scores and move on - he noticed the vacant expression, the barely moving pencil. He caught me in his support net before I even knew I was falling. He’d hand out questions to the class, and the first thing he’d do was come straight to my desk. At the very least, he made sure I read the first question and wrote something down. Forcing me to engage, seeing me so directly in those moments, was just enough to pull me back into reality.

At the time, it was annoying, uncomfortable, sometimes even awkward. Years later, I see it for what it was: life-changing.

Then came Mr. Sinclair.

A philosophy teacher with a spark you couldn’t ignore. His classroom was alive. Questions mattered. Ideas mattered. I mattered. For the first time, I loved going to class. I wanted to engage, to ask questions, to bring new ‘what ifs’ to the table. He inspired me to want more, maybe even to become a teacher just like him.

He was bold, warm, eccentric - and for the first time, I saw someone who reminded me of myself. We bonded over astrology, ghosts, and Buddhism. He created space for me to just breathe and exist, but also to try. I got to try because failure didn’t exist in that classroom. It was freeing.

And when I started slipping again, falling into old absentee habits, he noticed. He was the only teacher who asked why I wasn’t there. I was a kid who had built an identity on not having one. A kid who fantasised about being swallowed up by the world and pretending nothing existed.

To be noticed so directly cracked something open: what do you mean my presence matters? What do you mean I matter?

For a long time, I could count my most influential teachers on two hands. Not every one was for a positive reason, either.

But then I began working with an education company, and my whole view cracked open.

Suddenly, my world was filled with teachers. I listened to their stories. I watched them share ideas in webinars. I laughed with them at conferences across the states. Since then, the number of educators who inspire me has become endless.

And that’s why I’m here. That’s why you’re here.

Peel Back Education is my mission to give back. My labour of love. A force for good, and a shield of justice for the educators who rarely get the spotlight they deserve.

I want teachers to feel seen the way Mr. Rowley and Mr. Sinclair made me feel seen. Whether you teach first grade or twelfth, whether you’ve been in the classroom for one year or ten, whether you have ten followers or ten thousand, I believe your story matters. And I would love to help you tell it.

This is a museum of teaching: every word a brushstroke on a mural of educators.

This is a love letter: to patience, endurance, and the quiet heroism of this profession.

This is a storybook: and you are the protagonist.

Whether you already know your story, or are curious to see what could emerge, find out how to be a featured educator here.