If humans had taglines, what would yours be?

When I was working as a children’s English teacher, my daily life followed a well-worn rhythm. Each morning, I prepared flashcards with simple words like “apple,” “triangle,” and “November.” I sang cheerful Super Simple Songs with the kids, led phonics drills, and played the same vocabulary games again and again. The classroom was full of laughter and bright colors. My colleagues often said how lucky we were—doing something lighthearted, fun, and stable. Many of them had been teaching the same level for years and planned to continue until they got married, maybe even teach their own kids the same way.

But deep down, something in me began to stir—a quiet curiosity, a gentle sense of dissatisfaction. English is not my first language, we use Cambridge English textbooks and have plenty of teaching resources, but the way we actually teach is still very traditional. I started using my evenings and weekends to read. Not just more teaching materials, I joined parenting and teaching groups on Facebook, talked to parents face-to-face, and kept asking myself: How do the top teachers really teach? What am I missing? My leader asked me why I was suddenly shifting my focus, but she also recognized that I had a solid understanding of teaching. She encouraged me to pursue the TKT certificates to build on my skills. I didn’t have much energy for it because I had so many classes to teach. But fortunately, I managed to get a Band 3 on all three parts. Not bad.

Besides, I tried to read actual literature—essays, novels, American magazines, even textbooks written for native speakers. At first, it felt like walking through fog. The language was dense, unfamiliar, and slow.

During the pandemic, when schools moved online and everything seemed to pause, I saw an opportunity. I shifted my focus to the kinds of learning materials used by American students. I studied their patterns, built my own vocabulary lists, wrote summaries, and quizzed myself. Little by little, I started to improve. I decided to start a blog—not because I thought I had something to teach, but because I wanted to document my learning journey and share it openly. I posted reading notes, reflections, and learning experiments.

At first, no one noticed. But over time, readers started to find me—other learners, readers, and language lovers from around the world. Some even became friends. I began having real conversations about books, culture, and learning with people from the U.S., Europe, and Asia. It was exciting—and scary. Unlike teaching, there was no set income, no clear path forward. Just me, my books, and the hope that it would lead somewhere meaningful. The growth was quiet, invisible, and deeply personal.

Eventually, I changed jobs. I had noticed that many of my young students didn’t truly enjoy learning English—they were just studying for tests. That realization was disheartening. But I didn’t give up.

I often doubted myself. I’d wonder: What’s the point of this? Why spend hours reading books and advocating for it to kids when I could have just earned a little by teaching instead? Why isolate myself with a novel when I could be gaming or hanging out with friends? Despite the doubts, I kept going.

Meanwhile, many of my old colleagues remained in the same classrooms, teaching the same lessons, singing the same songs. There’s nothing wrong with that—it brings them happiness and better scores (the school tests were at an A1-starter CEFR level, which is more suitable for Grade 1 students in international schools, not for those in Grade 6), and they have good relationship with both parents and kids.

But I knew I was meant for something different. These days, I read two to three books a month and have kept that habit for years. Reading has become as natural to me as breathing. It’s changed how I think, how I write, and how I see the world. It has given me confidence—not because I read so many books, but because I can see how much I’ve grown.

I kept learning and eventually connected with more students who attended international schools or lived in English-speaking countries. I got a better understanding of how young people live and think, what hobbies they enjoy, and what inspires them. I also began reading a wider range of materials—The New Yorker, WSJ, or magazines about biking, design, and yes memes. I listen to Billie Eilish and Waxahatchee, and I know Italian brainrot.

Comfort gave me a floor to stand on. It made me feel safe at the beginning, and I’m grateful for that. But if I had never stepped away from it, it would have become my ceiling too—a quiet barrier keeping me from the growth I didn’t know I was capable of. True transformation doesn’t happen where things are easy. It begins at the edge of comfort—where uncertainty, challenge, and discovery live.