After years of homeschooling my kids, I finally let them return to traditional school. I wasn’t expecting miracles—I just hoped they’d be able to survive math in a classroom setting.
But in the back of my mind, I feared the impostor in me was about to be exposed. Had I really taught them enough? Had I done math justice?
Then something happened.
My son started sharing stories—not of struggle, but of success. He told me how classmates would ask him for help, how he often found himself at the whiteboard, explaining solutions.
“Really?” My disbelief was through the roof.
He still asked for help sometimes, but his questions became fewer and fewer—until they stopped altogether. Not because he no longer wanted my support, but because he had enough confidence and determination to figure things out on his own.
One day, I walked in to see him on a Zoom call with his classmates. There he was, patiently explaining the steps to a math problem they had all been stumped on. He broke it down, simplified it, made it easier for them to catch up.
My momma heart felt like a disco ball—sparkling, beaming, dancing.
And then, a few weeks later, I attended a PTA meeting. I tend to stay low-key at these gatherings, carefully avoiding attention that might land me with extra responsibilities.
Parents began sharing their children’s experiences, and one woman spoke up about her nephew—a new student from the province, not very tech-savvy.
She shared how she once saw him in a video call, where a classmate was patiently teaching him and the rest of their classmates math. She was amazed by the way the students helped each other, and how much that support had meant to her nephew.
Oh wow. Oh wow.
I had spent years doubting myself, believing I wasn’t fit to teach math, that I was merely stumbling through it, hoping my kids wouldn’t inherit my fears. But the truth was, I had taught them something far more valuable than formulas and equations—I had given them patience, resilience, and the confidence to find solutions on their own.
Math had been my weakness, but my son turned it into his strength.
And maybe, just maybe, that means I did something right.
