I teach first year writing. So many faces, with hopeful expressions and a hint of fear. Trepidation oozes from them. So many people taking a courageous step forward, toward a goal that seems so far off.

They seem scared, at first, of me, and they are terrified of my subject. But the first time I trip in class or tell a stupid joke about nouns or a pun that only the equally nerdy find funny, I become a person. The awkward label of professor becomes less intimidating.

They can’t see themselves the way I do. All optimism and potential. They have so much greatness to offer this world. So many smart thoughts. My students often need a change of eyes. Of perspective.

I watch them: a future athletic trainer, a surgeon, nurses, businessmen and women, computer scientists, social workers, and teachers. All with doubt bubbles floating around and sometimes swallowing them whole.

I wish they would vomit. Getting rid of self-doubt—purging the adolescent negativity that clings to them, Star Wars style. They are smart, talented, witty, and deeply conscious.

They’re labeled and misunderstood. Called lazy. Rejected as entitled. I vote no. That’s not entirely valid.

Largely, my students are none of those things. I wish I knew how to convince them of all they are without sounding contrived. How to make them believe my words are not things that I am “required” to say? They give me hope.

My hope in them drives me. I wake up ready to give them the tools they need to become their own greatest achievements.

They inspire me. It doesn’t matter if down the road, they forget my name. If they learn something from me at my spot on their maps, I too have achieved greatness.