Not the Lesson I Planned

When I was 18, I attended a talk by a mountaineer who became my role model. Nearly a decade later, her story would lead me to the Himalayas—where I would unknowingly become a role model myself.

I sat wide-eyed in a metal folding chair in the backroom of my local REI store as Dr. Sara Safari, the world-renowned Iranian mountaineer, recounted climbing Chomolungma, known in the west as Mt. Everest. I was about to begin college as an undecided major and finally leave my Silicon Valley hometown when I saw the ad for her talk, which she was giving to raise awareness and funds for girls’ education in Nepal. My heart raced as she played videos of village children teaching her Nepali dance and described success stories of girls who received education thanks to Empower Nepali Girls, the nonprofit with which she had partnered. After her lecture, I bought and devoured her memoir, fittingly titled Follow My Footsteps. Floored by her authenticity and dedication to supporting children, she planted the seed for my wish to one day teach in Nepal.

Several years later, I read Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin. Perhaps I picked it up because of its similarities to Sara’s story: a climber’s failed mountaineering attempt that led to finding his life’s purpose through a chance meeting with local youth. Reading about Greg’s experience connecting with children around K2, which led him to build them a school and eventually establish the Central Asia Institute, deeply moved me. Sara and Greg’s independent thinking and their service toward others helped lead me to reject the Silicon Valley dream that my family wanted for me and become a teacher instead. Greg’s story further motivated me to volunteer in Nepal, which I finally did in 2024.

Drawn to its aim of “connecting people, connecting nations,” I participated in the Fulbright English Teaching Assistant Program, which placed me in a small town in the Kavrepalanchok district of Nepal. During the initial drive to my site, I watched the motorbikes and dense buildings of Kathmandu transition to farm animals, hindu temples, and rice terraces under a hazy orange sun. An hour and a half later, I arrived at my workplace for the next year: a quaint school in the “hills,” which looked more like mountains
to me.

At the school, I was paired with local Nepali educators to co-teach English to 4th-7th graders, and I was eager to improve students’ English as best as I could. But as the year progressed, multiple barriers, like the required textbooks with lessons far too advanced for many students, a memorization-based model of learning, and a schedule that left insufficient time for lesson planning in the way that I was accustomed to caused me to question my effectiveness. In addition, classroom management proved nearly impossible if my co-teacher wasn’t present, since these very sweet but highly energetic children saw foreign volunteers as fun visitors who didn’t need to be taken seriously. I tried to provide one-on-one support for students whose English was weak, but with my Nepali being even worse, my efforts often felt futile.

I had come to Nepal believing that helping students grow into their most successful selves would be achieved by guiding them toward mastery of English. But without a clear assessment plan to track students’ progress, as my Master’s of Education and teaching credential had drilled into me, it was hard to know whether I was having any impact at all.

As a supplemental project, I created a school news club for older students. At the first gathering, I led a team bonding activity that had students respond to get-to-know-you questions while out of their seats— a contrast to their usual schooling model of always sitting on their benches. Afterward, I asked students what they thought of the first meeting. An eighth grader named Aayasha, whom I’d only met once or twice before, looked straight at me with glowing eyes. “Ma’am, you’re amazing! You’re so confident,” she said.

Her comment stunned me. After my carefully-crafted, engaging lesson about school news, what left the greatest impression on this student was the character of her teacher. While I had been so worried about “helping” children academically, this student was inspired by my self-assured demeanor. During the bumpy school bus ride home that afternoon, I wondered why she had said this to me.

When I met Sara years earlier, I saw myself in her: a woman of color who too often had been told what to do. She had quit her career as an engineer before pursuing mountaineering. Meeting this competent young woman of authority, this leader, to whom I could directly relate made me think, “I can be like that, too.” She helped me find the courage to teach when everyone around me seemed to be telling me not to.

It can be difficult to measure impact as a teacher. But Aayasha showed me that I was impacting students simply by showing up as myself and teaching in a way that felt authentic to me. While I can’t be sure my students will recall how to use the past perfect tense, I take solace in the wisdom of American puppeteer Jim Henson, who said, “[Kids] don’t remember what you try to teach them. They remember what you are.”

On my last, tearful day of teaching in Nepal, I watched Aayasha win multiple student awards at a school assembly. She later handed me a letter, which said, “Even though we know each other for only some months… just know that I can NEVER forget you.”

And I will never forget them.