What I Learned About My Students When I Showed Up Late to Class

... Remember that the classroom is more than academics. It’s a space where we model what it means to be human.

Hey Fam,

Thanks for stopping by.

Today, I want to share a humbling experience that reminded me how powerful it can be to let go of perfection and embrace the messy reality of life.

It was a typical Tuesday morning, the kind of day I thought I had down to a science. But it turned out to be anything but typical. I started my morning like always: I woke up early, asked Alexa to cue up Robert Glasper Radio on Pandora ( I highly recommend it ), lit some incense, and mentally prepared for my 10 a.m. class. My morning routine usually grounds me, helps me focus, and sets the tone for the day. I left the house around 8:20 a.m., hoping to beat the Boston traffic, putting me on campus a full hour before class on any typical day.

But as soon as I hit the road, something felt… off.

The traffic was unreal. What usually took a few minutes stretched to almost twenty just to get onto the highway. I was cutting it close; the GPS now had me arriving at 9:30 a.m. It was tight but doable. Then, as if the city had conspired against me, traffic came to a total standstill. Each alternate route I checked was jam-packed. By 9:20 a.m., I was still nowhere near campus. Panic started to creep in. I thought, “Should I email my students to let them know I’ll be late?” or “Should I just wait it out; maybe this will clear up in time.”

Then came the self-talk: “How will my students see me?

I hold them to high standards, especially when it comes to being on time for class. I’m strict about it because I believe in discipline and accountability. And here I was, my well-prepared day completely off the rails, running late with no control over the situation. I emailed letting my students know I would be late and felt my heart sink.

When I finally walked into class at 10:22 a.m., I found my students patiently waiting.

As I thanked them for their patience and began setting up, I had a moment of clarity. Instead of jumping straight into the lesson, I put down my bag, looked at them, and said, “Can I be vulnerable with you all for a moment?” They all nodded yes.

I told them about my struggle with perfectionism and how it drives me to constantly push myself, sometimes too hard.

I let them know that, just like them, I’m learning. I’m learning to be patient, especially with myself, and accept that no preparation can shield us from life’s curveballs. I used an analogy that keeps me grounded: “When you ask God for patience, God doesn’t just hand it to you. Instead, God hands you a situation where you have no choice but to learn it.”

I shared with them the analogy that many of us get frustrated when we ask God for a table only to receive a tree instead. It’s raw and unformed, and it takes effort to turn it into what we need. Life doesn’t always hand us things perfectly packaged. Instead, it gives us opportunities to work, learn, and grow. This was one of those days for me, a reminder that striving to be my best self doesn’t mean everything will always go according to plan.

What happened next truly humbled me.

One by one, students thanked me for being honest with them. They told me that they respected me even more for admitting my struggle. I could tell they saw me in a new light, one that went beyond the boundaries of educator and student. By showing them that even I grapple with imperfection, they realized that my expectations for them don’t come from a place of rigid “rule-following.” They come from a place of care and commitment to their growth.

At that moment, something shifted in the room.

The distance that often exists between educator and student felt a little smaller. I felt closer to them and could sense they felt the same way. They saw that my high standards weren’t about control; they were about helping them build discipline, accountability, and, ultimately, a path to becoming the best version of themselves. We dove into the day’s lesson with a fresh energy, and while it didn’t go exactly as planned, it didn’t need to. We were all more present, more connected, and more open. It was a reminder that, sometimes, the most impactful lessons aren’t the ones we plan but the ones that happen organically in the spaces where vulnerability meets understanding.

Lessons I Learned:

1. Lead with vulnerability.

For many of us, showing our true selves feels risky, especially when students rely on us as guides. But sometimes, the most valuable lesson we can teach is that we, too, are human. Admitting my struggle with perfectionism didn’t just make me feel more grounded; it opened the door for students to see that growth isn’t linear, not for them and not for me.

The shared vulnerability became a bridge that made the learning experience more relatable and connected.

2. Reframe expectations as acts of care

It’s easy to see strict expectations as a means of control or discipline. But what if, instead, we see them as acts of care? When I hold my students accountable, I do it not because I’m inflexible but because I care deeply about their development. Being late for class reminded me to communicate that my expectations come from a place of encouragement, not perfection.

By sharing this openly, I saw my students view these standards through a new lens that helped them feel supported rather than pressured.

3. Growth takes work.

Sometimes, we ask for patience, strength, or growth, and life hands us the raw materials, challenging us to build it ourselves. I realized that when things go off-script in the classroom or in life, those unplanned moments may just be the lessons we need most.

As educators, if we embrace these moments and adapt to them, we model resilience and flexibility for our students, showing them that life’s true lessons rarely arrive in perfect form.

I encourage you to remember that the classroom is more than academics. It’s a space where we model what it means to be human. Embracing our flaws, sharing our struggles, and navigating life’s interruptions contribute to a more authentic teaching and learning experience. So, the next time things don’t go as planned, remember that every “traffic jam” holds a lesson. In those moments, let’s give ourselves the grace we often encourage in our students.

We’re all learning, and maybe that’s the greatest lesson of all.

Thanks for your time today. Talk to you soon.

Much Love,

Dr. Jae

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