A new school year is upon us. Those in education are feeling alllll the emotions right now. As I work with educators across the country I often say something to help guide our conversation and thoughts for the time we have together:

That child in your classroom or school may not become the next President of the United States, but they may become your community’s next best mechanic.

Both lives are equally valuable.
Both have the power to change lives.

I shared that thought recently on social media, and it seemed to connect with a lot of people. I think it’s because somewhere along the way, we’ve created this idea that certain kinds of success matter more than others.

We celebrate the student who gets into the prestigious university. We celebrate the future doctor, attorney, CEO, or engineer. We celebrate the student whose accomplishments are easy to put on a banner or share in a social media post.

And we should celebrate them.

But we should also celebrate:
The student who discovers they are incredible with their hands.
The student who wants to fix cars.
The student who wants to cut hair.
The student who wants to drive a truck, open a restaurant, work construction, become a plumber, stay home with their children, or build something we’ve never even thought of yet.

Because a person’s value has never been determined by the title that comes after their name.

One of the most humbling parts of working in education is realizing that we rarely get to see the end of the story.

We get a chapter. Sometimes we only get a few pages.

A child walks into our classroom, our office, our cafeteria, or our school, and for a brief season we get the opportunity to be part of their story.

We don’t know who they’re going to become.
We don’t know whose life they’ll save.
Whose car they’ll fix.
Whose child they’ll teach.
Whose home they’ll build.
Whose day they’ll brighten.
Whose loneliness they’ll interrupt.
Whose dream they’ll encourage.

We don’t know the impact they’ll have on their family, their neighborhood, their workplace, or their community. And that’s exactly why the work we do matters so much.

We don’t get to decide which students have the most potential. Our job is to help every student discover the incredible value they already have.

I think sometimes we have a very narrow definition of what it means to “change the world.”

We imagine huge platforms. Big accomplishments. Thousands of followers. Awards. Headlines. Leadership positions. But most people who change our world will never make the news.

They’re the mechanic who notices something wrong with your car that could have put your family in danger.
They’re the custodian who learns every child’s name and notices when one of them isn’t acting like themselves.
They’re the neighbor who checks on an elderly couple down the street.
They’re the barber who becomes a safe place for someone to talk.
They’re the bus driver who greets a child by name every single morning.
They’re the parent who raises kind, compassionate children.
They’re the friend who answers the phone when everyone else is asleep.

Those lives matter too.

In fact, those are often the people who make our communities worth living in. Maybe changing the world doesn’t always mean changing the world. Sometimes it means changing someone’s world. And that is more than enough.

That’s why I’m so passionate about the words we use and the way we treat children. Because kids are always listening.

They notice who gets celebrated.
They notice who gets called “gifted.”
They notice whose talents are valued and whose are treated like a consolation prize.
They notice when the adults around them light up because of something they’ve accomplished.

And they notice when we don’t.

As educators and leaders, we have an incredible responsibility to make sure children don’t leave our schools believing their worth is tied to a test score, a class rank, an athletic ability, a college acceptance letter, or the amount of money they might someday make.

I want them to know:

You have something to offer.
You have gifts this world needs.
You can make a difference.
Your story matters.

And you don’t have to become famous, wealthy, powerful, or known by millions of people for any of that to be true.

I’ve met plenty of kids who didn’t believe much about themselves. Maybe life had convinced them they weren’t smart enough. Maybe someone had already labeled them as difficult, lazy, unmotivated, or a problem. Maybe school had become another place where they felt like they didn’t quite measure up.

Those are the kids who need us to believe a little louder.

Sometimes a child needs to borrow our belief in them until they’re strong enough to believe it themselves.

That’s why the conversation in the hallway matters.
That’s why the note on the desk matters.
That’s why showing up to their game matters.
That’s why noticing the thing they’re good at matters.
That’s why saying, “I see something in you,” matters.

We may never know what that moment becomes. But they might.

So tomorrow, when that child walks into your classroom for the hundredth time…
When that student gets sent to your office again…
When you encounter the kid who doesn’t fit the mold you had imagined for “success“…

Remember that you are looking at a life that matters.

Don’t waste that opportunity trying to decide how important their story will become. Treat them like it already is.

Because every life matters.
Every story matters.
Every child matters.

And sometimes the greatest impact we make as educators isn’t helping a child become someone important.

It’s helping them realize they already are.