Skip to main content

Hello, professor!

Image
By
"Hello, professor." I say it as soon as someone crosses the threshold. I say it without thinking, like breathing. But behind these words, there is time, a journey, a memory.

It was at the Hospital do Servidor Público de São Paulo that I first learnt to truly see teachers. They would arrive carrying invisible notebooks — not in their hands, but in their bodies. Their necks bent from years of looking down at lesson plans, their shoulders heavy with the weight of knowledge given away day after day. They would sit before me, their minds full of wisdom, their spines full of pain. And I would listen. And I would learn.

Perhaps that is why I never stopped saying "professor." It does not matter who you are or what you do. Life itself is a classroom, and every person, knowingly or not, is a master of something. The body teaches through its aches, silence teaches through its absence, even pain imparts lessons — whether we ask for them or not.

And so, the word stayed with me. Not as a mere title, but as recognition. A way of saying, I see you. A way of acknowledging that there is something in you, something unique, that deserves to be heard. Teachers — those who bear the title — are rarely called so enough. So I call them. And I call everyone.

When you hear me say "Hello, professor," understand: it is not just a greeting. It is a gesture towards all you have learnt and all you still have to teach. Because here, in this moment of consultation, it is not I who heal. It is we who learn.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

When Shawn Mendes Became a Lifeline

By
When my father fell ill in his final days, the lyrics of Shawn Mendes’ In My Blood became an unexpected refuge, helping me process the reality unfolding before me. The song’s plea — its raw, urgent cry against the weight of helplessness — resonated in a way that felt almost too personal. “Help me, it’s like the walls are caving in” — those words captured the suffocating dread that gripped me in the small hours, waiting for news, hoping for a miracle I already knew would not come. The song does not offer easy comfort; nor does it deny the pain of endurance. Instead, it acknowledges the struggle — the desperate search for strength when every instinct urges collapse. “I just wanna give up, but I can’t.” That was it, exactly. The exhaustion, the emotional erosion, the moments when hope felt like a cruel joke. And yet, beneath it all, an unspoken defiance: the fight continues, not because it is easy, but because surrender is unthinkable. The grief that followed those long hours ...
Post a Comment
Read more

The Quiet Battle of Becoming

By
Sometimes I write selfish pages. Not out of greed, nor vanity — no. I write them as if whispering to myself in the dark, so I don’t forget. Because forgetting is easy. The noise of the world is thick, sticky, clinging to the skin and numbing the senses. And in this blur of days, of duties, of silences swallowed whole, I must remind myself of what truly matters. Life isn’t a straight line, nor a grand revelation. It is a slow unravelling, a peeling away of what isn’t yours until you find what is. Never stop fighting, they say, until you arrive at your destined place. But what is destiny if not the place where you are most yourself? And how do you know when you’ve arrived? You don’t. You just keep moving, sculpting yourself with each step, shedding skins that no longer fit. There must be an aim, a north, a whisper calling you forward. Otherwise, what is effort but exhaustion? With purpose, even suffering holds meaning. The wind scatters those who walk without direction, but t...
Post a Comment
Read more

The Shape of Thought

By
Gustav Klimt once said, “Art is a line around your thoughts.” A line — thin as a whisper, trembling yet deliberate — emerges from nothingness. It does not impose itself. It does not command. It is barely there, yet it holds. It is the first breath of form, the fragile boundary between the unsaid and the spoken. Without it, thought is a flicker in the dark, a thing half-lived, dissolving before it can be known. A vision stirs. Not summoned, not controlled. It arrives unbidden — whole yet veiled, elusive yet certain. It lingers at the edge of perception, pressing gently, insistently, against the mind’s quiet. It cannot be seized outright. To reach for it is to risk shattering it; to hesitate is to watch it dissolve. And so, the line must be drawn. But not too soon. Not too rigidly. It must breathe, as thought itself breathes, as meaning unfolds. The hand moves, uncertain yet assured, guided by something beyond logic. An intelligence older than language, something that knows ...
Post a Comment
Read more