This essay earned First Place in the 2025 Huaxia Writing Competition.

“One day, when I am old and silver-haired, I will be watching television and see your name on the screen. By then, you will be a young man wearing a nice suit and slicked-back hair, and the reporters will praise you for something remarkable. I will leap up from my rocking chair and point to the screen, shouting, ‘That’s the kid! That’s the boy I taught back in fourth grade!’

I stared into Mrs. Atkinson’s crystal blue eyes, searching for any hint of fiction. I had become good at telling liars apart by how their eyes nervously retreated. But her eyes didn’t flinch, calmly holding my gaze like we were locked in a sword duel. She probably says that to everyone. I brushed her off, averting my eyes back to the worksheet on my desk.

I couldn’t sleep that night. I stared into the dark bedroom ceiling, but all I could see were her eyes. It felt like they were filled with sapphire water from the River of Hope. Why me? I thought, How could I ever live up to that? I can picture, in painfully vivid detail, her look of disappointment if she saw me fail. The thought of it made me wrap myself tighter in my blanket.

The next day, I had a test in Mrs. Atkinson’s class. The weight of exhaustion from yesterday night crushed me like an anvil. When I got the results, I couldn’t even bear to look at the paper. I fought to hold back my tears, but it was as futile as fighting the waves. A stream of salty disappointment rolled down my pale cheeks. I buried my face in my palms, unwilling to let the world witness my embarrassment. Mrs. Atkinson placed a box of Kleenex tissues on my desk.

There was a post-it note on the box. Written in thick black Sharpie were the words: “See me after class.” I slowly lifted my head, expecting to see the aggrieved look of shame on my teacher’s face. What I saw, instead, was a smile. It was a gentle smile, as soft and delicate as a cloud.

When the bell rang, my classmates all got up to leave. Chairs scraped against the linoleum floors. One by one, my classmates flooded out the exit until I was the only student in the room. Their indistinct chatter slowly faded into nothingness. Mrs. Atkinson calmly walked over to my table, lowered herself next to my desk, and asked:

“Fine,” I blurted, pretending to wipe my tears so she couldn’t see I was lying.

“You’re bummed out about how you did on that test, huh?” She gently took my hands off my face to look me in the eye. Words pushed against my mouth like water in a dam, but I didn’t respond. Just a few days ago, Mrs. Atkinson had put her hopes in my success. Now, she knelt there, pitying my failure.

She peeled off the yellow Post-it note on the tissue box. I watched silently as she began folding in corners and making creases. Before long, a quaint little octopus stood on the table.

“It’s missing a leg.”

“Do you know what happens when an octopus loses an arm?” she asked out of nowhere. I was at a loss for words. She straightened one of the creases.

“An octopus doesn’t panic. It starts a process of regrowth. Within a few months, the octopus will have a brand new arm.”

I stared at her blankly, unsure what to make of this information.

“Does the octopus fall to the ground and give up when it gets hurt?

“No.” I shook my head.

“That’s right. Imagine you are the octopus. One test doesn’t define you. You are so much more than that. If nothing was challenging enough to push you over, then you will never have the chance to get back up. An octopus doesn’t contemplate its failure; it learns from it. Maybe it won’t get hurt next time.”

She placed the origami octopus in my palms and closed my hand around it.

It has been many years since I’ve seen Mrs. Atkinson. Perhaps she has already forgotten who I am, my name washed up in the ocean of other students. Or perhaps she’s still watching on her TV screen every day, waiting patiently for my name to appear in the headlines.

Nevertheless, I’ll never stop trying to become the boy she saw on that television. She believed in me at a pivotal time in my life. I pushed myself to perfection just to see her look of joy as she handed back my tests.

When I inevitably failed in the face of my own outlandish expectations, she was there to remind me that it was a necessary part of growth. She planted a seed and watered it with care. When it was time for the outside world, I was ready to face what lay ahead.

Mrs. Atkinson wasn’t just a mentor; she was, and still continues to be, my North Star. In moments of despair, I can look up to the sky with the same earnest look that she gave to me.