It has been over three years since I walked into your classroom for the first time. As a transfer student my junior year of high school, I had high hopes for what this year would hold for me. I had thought all of the pain from freshman and sophomore years were left behind at my old school with the people who tormented me. Little did I know, there were more problems inside of me than I had expected that I carried with me to this new school. Little did I know, mere months after meeting my new AP teacher, she would be the one to change my life forever.

The class was hard and I remember that, I rarely scored above a C on anything. But you were not concerned about my grades as much as you were about my well-being. I think that is what really set you apart from other teachers. You were the type of woman who could tell when her students had been up all night crying, the teacher who would ask if everything was okay at home, and the type of person to disregard homework if your students told you they were distressed. You were not a school counselor, you were a teacher, and to me you were a second mom.

In sixth grade, I started to display signs of clinical depression and generalized anxiety disorder. My parents and I disregarded it as puberty. We lived in a town where mental health was not talked about. So I was ashamed about what was going on in my head, and my twelve-year-old self-had to deal with it on my own. Which caused me to resort to self-harm. This behavior lasted pretty much until I graduated high school. I often wonder if part of this came from the fact that around the same time I realized I was attracted to girls and I was ashamed of myself for that as well. Either way, February of my freshman year of high school was the first time I had serious suicidal thoughts. At the age of 15, I swallowed a handful of ibuprofen in hopes of ending my life.

Fast forward to junior year. I was still struggling with these thoughts. The bullies who caused them were long behind me but the damage was done. At the beginning of the year I was outgoing and happy. As time went on, I became more reserved, quieter. I didn’t participate in class anymore, I slept through fourth period physics almost every day. I started self-harming again, worse than I ever had before. None of my friends or family or teachers noticed, except you.

I would cry in the bathroom at school almost daily and come to your class with bloodshot eyes and you were the person who asked if I was okay. And on one February morning, after another sleepless night, I came to your room. And I remember asking with a broken voice, “Can I talk to you?” I remember the worry in your eyes as you told me to close your door and sit down. And that day was the first time I had told anyone of the dark thoughts racing through my head. That day, you sat with me and held me while I sobbed out years of bullying, sexual confusion and self-hatred. That day, you started your first-period class 20 minutes late because you were talking to me.

That day, you saved my life.

I had never had someone listen to me like you did. I was never taken seriously. You were the first person to listen to me and remind me I am worthy of love, and respect, and existence. You were the person who retaught me how to love myself. You emailed my teachers to tell them that I was in a crisis and to take it easy for a while. The rest of the year you would ask me how I was doing, if I was better or worse or the same. You gave me a safe place where I didn’t have to fake being okay or something I wasn’t.

The next year, before graduation, you pulled me aside. And you told me how proud you were that I survived and became better and rose higher. You were the only reason I cried at graduation. Because other than myself, you were the only person who knew how hard I fought to walk across that stage. Not just in academia, but the wars I had to fight every single day to get out of bed, to come to class, to live. And you acknowledged that. You were the only person who acknowledged that I had to fight like hell to make it to my high school graduation.

Now, two years after I graduated, my sophomore year of college, I thank God every day that I met you. I would not have made it here if you didn’t take care of me that day. And I still talk to you, you still tell me how proud you are, you still encourage me to be better. You went above and beyond your call of duty as a teacher and I hope you know that. If at any time you feel like you aren’t making a difference, know you saved at least one student’s life. There is no way I can ever repay you because I owe you my life.