I spent thirty years as a teacher, and I learned something curious about shame. The students who needed correction most seemed immune to it, while the kind, hardworking kids absorbed every word like a wound. Years later, I realized I was living out that same pattern myself. Old mistakes ambush me like lightning—memories from decades ago that no one else recalls, yet I prosecute myself endlessly for them. The irony is cruel: I give grace freely to others, but not to the younger version of me. It’s time to stop answering calls meant for someone who doesn’t live here anymore.
