I was already flustered walking into class that morning. My sitter bailed last minute, and I couldn’t afford to skip again. So there I was—diaper bag slung over one shoulder, trying to take notes with one hand while bouncing my baby with the other.

It was quiet for the first ten minutes. Just long enough for me to breathe. Then, of course, he started crying. Loud. Full-on red face, back-arching, why-am-I-here crying.

I froze. Everyone turned. I started packing up, whispering apologies, head down. I figured I’d just have to catch the lecture online—again.

But then Professor Amiri stopped mid-sentence, looked right at me, and said:

“No, no, please don’t leave. He’s fine here. Let him cry. I’ll keep going. Don’t worry about it.”

The words hit me like a wave of relief, crashing over the tension I hadn’t even realized I was holding in my shoulders. I looked up, expecting him to be making some sort of joke, but there was no trace of mockery in his face. He was serious.

I slowly sat back down, clutching my baby closer as his cries filled the room. I could feel the eyes of my classmates on me, some sympathetic, some annoyed, but none of that mattered in that moment. Professor Amiri turned back to the board, picked up his lecture right where he had left off, and continued without missing a beat.

I couldn’t believe it. He didn’t make me feel awkward. He didn’t look at me like I was inconveniencing everyone around me. It was like my baby’s cries were just another part of the class, and the room kept flowing like normal.

I tried to focus on the lecture, but my mind kept drifting. The unexpected kindness of Professor Amiri kept echoing in my thoughts. I had been bracing myself for judgment, for whispers behind my back, for a hasty, uncomfortable exit. But instead, I was met with understanding.

By the time class ended, my baby had calmed down, and I was feeling a little more grounded. But that feeling didn’t end in that moment. As I was packing up, Professor Amiri came up to me and offered me a small, knowing smile.

“You’re doing great,” he said quietly. “Don’t worry about the little things. This is your journey, and I’m just here to help you through it.”

I was shocked, honestly. I didn’t know how to respond. All I could manage was a grateful smile and a quick “thank you” before I rushed out to catch my next class.

It wasn’t until later that evening, after the baby was in bed and I finally had time to reflect, that the full weight of the moment hit me. Here I was, a single mother trying to juggle school, work, and everything else life threw at me, and yet, that simple act of kindness from my professor made me feel like I wasn’t alone in this. Like I didn’t have to carry the burden of shame and guilt that often came with being a mother in a classroom setting.

I wasn’t the only one in the class who noticed it. Later that week, a few of my classmates approached me during a break.

“Hey, I just wanted to say, I think it was really cool how the professor handled things the other day,” one of them said. “I know it’s tough balancing school and being a mom. I have so much respect for you.”

Another classmate nodded. “Yeah, it was kind of amazing how he just let you be. I don’t think most professors would have done that. And I don’t think I could do what you’re doing.”

I smiled at them, grateful for their kind words. But what really stuck with me was what one student said next.

“You’re teaching us something just by being here,” they said. “You’re showing us that we don’t have to let anything hold us back, not even the hardest things. It’s inspiring, really.”

That hit me hard. It hadn’t occurred to me that by showing up, by being present, even in the most challenging moments, I was setting an example. I had been so focused on feeling like I wasn’t enough—like I was taking up too much space in this classroom—when the truth was, my presence was teaching resilience. It was teaching perseverance.

The next few weeks went by, and I continued balancing school and motherhood. There were more moments of stress, more moments of exhaustion, but each time I faced a challenge, I found myself thinking back to that day in Professor Amiri’s class. I remembered how he made me feel like it was okay to struggle, okay to cry, okay to be imperfect.

Then, a couple of months later, a new twist came into play—something I never saw coming. One of my classmates, a quiet, reserved woman who I had barely spoken to, reached out to me.

“I don’t know how to say this,” she said, her voice shaky. “But I just wanted to tell you that watching you manage everything—school, your baby, everything—has really helped me. I’ve been struggling with depression for a while, and I’ve been on the fence about dropping out. But seeing you push through… it’s given me the strength to keep going.”

I was floored. This woman, who seemed to have it all together, was struggling in ways I couldn’t even imagine. Yet somehow, my little life—my challenges, my juggling act—had given her the courage to keep going. I hadn’t known how much of an impact I was making. All I saw were my struggles. But to someone else, those struggles were a testament to strength and resilience.

And that’s when I realized: the way we move through life, even when it feels difficult or overwhelming, has the potential to impact others in ways we can’t always see. We may never know the full extent of our influence, but the simple act of showing up, of doing our best, can change someone’s life in a way we never imagined.

As the semester continued, I became more confident. Not in the sense that everything was easier, but in the sense that I no longer felt the need to apologize for the circumstances I found myself in. I stopped worrying about what others thought. I stopped thinking I wasn’t enough. And when I needed help, I asked for it. I wasn’t afraid to lean on my classmates or my professor, and that vulnerability opened doors for connection and support.

The most remarkable thing happened during finals week. I had been staying up late studying while my baby slept, running on little sleep but determined to finish strong. The night before my last exam, I was exhausted. My baby had been sick, and I was running on fumes.

But then, out of nowhere, Professor Amiri sent me an email. It wasn’t just a generic “good luck” message. He wrote:

“I know you’ve been balancing a lot, and I just wanted to remind you that you’re doing incredible work. You’re going to be just fine. Take care of yourself, and don’t hesitate to reach out if you need anything.”

It wasn’t much, but it was exactly what I needed to hear at that moment. It was a reminder that I was seen, that I wasn’t alone. That sometimes, all it takes is someone acknowledging our efforts to help us keep going.

I walked into that exam with more confidence than I expected. And when the results came back, I had passed with flying colors. Not just academically, but personally. I had learned that strength doesn’t mean doing everything perfectly; it means showing up, doing the best you can, and knowing that sometimes, the hardest moments have the potential to teach us the most.

The karmic twist? After the semester ended, I received an unexpected scholarship. It was for single mothers in academia—something I hadn’t even known existed. It was a financial relief I didn’t expect, but it also felt like a sign that the universe had been watching, and had given me a little help for all the effort I’d put in.

I can’t say that everything is perfect now. Life still has its ups and downs, but I’ve learned to embrace the messiness. And I’ve learned that even in the toughest times, showing up and doing your best can create ripples that reach far beyond what you can see.

If you’re ever feeling like you’re not enough, remember this: you are. And sometimes, the most difficult moments are the ones that teach us the most. Keep pushing forward, and you might just be surprised at the ways life will reward you.

Please share this with anyone who could use a little encouragement today. And don’t forget to like this post if you believe in the power of perseverance. We’re all in this together.