When I shared my dad’s leukemia diagnosis with my students, I wasn’t sure how they’d respond. But their kindness left me speechless. This experience reminded me how powerful building relationships with students can be, and how vulnerability in the classroom can create a truly positive classroom culture. If you’ve ever doubted how amazing kids are these days, this story might change your mind.
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I wasn’t planning on telling my students anything.
When my dad was diagnosed with leukemia in early January, I took two days off to drive to the hospital with my sister. We met with doctors, asked questions, tried to process the news, and then headed to my parents’ house to take care of their two cats (who leave hair ties and water bottle caps in their food dishes to ensure a daily refresh). My parents are truly amazing people. So are my sister and aunt. They’re the kind of family who sent me back to work that Monday because they knew I needed to…well…work.
But standing in front of my classroom that Monday morning, I had a decision to make about how much vulnerability in teaching I could handle.
When Vulnerability in Teaching Feels Risky
I’m good at compartmentalizing. Twenty-five years of teaching will do that to you. You learn to set aside your personal life when you walk through those classroom doors because the job demands it. Students need you present, focused, ready. I recently did a podcast episode about this.
But I also knew I might need to leave again at a moment’s notice. And I was a little concerned that if I opened my mouth to talk about what was happening, I’d fall apart. I’m an emotional person anyway, and this was my dad. The thought of crying in front of my students made me almost not say anything.
I decided I needed to be honest, though. What if I had to take off again unexpectedly?
I told all my classes. I kept it hopeful but real: my dad was diagnosed with leukemia, he’s in treatment, we’re optimistic because he’s fit and takes good care of himself, and I might need to take off again if things changed. That was it.
Their reaction surprised me. They were worried. Genuinely worried. I found myself reassuring them, encouraging them, telling them it would be okay. In trying to be vulnerable, I ended up being the one offering comfort.
And I didn’t cry.
An Unexpected Act of Kindness in School
Two days later, a student walked up to me holding a poster board.
It was covered in messages. Messages from students I currently teach. Former students. Students I’ve never taught but talk to in the hallways. Teachers. Staff members. All of them sending prayers and encouragement to my dad.
One student had designed it. They did this behind my back, passing it around outside my classroom, getting signatures in other teachers’ rooms. My school community had rallied and I didn’t know it.
When that girl handed me the poster, I hugged her. I thanked everyone. I felt humbled. They recorded the moment (true to their generation), and I took that poster to my dad’s hospital room on Saturday.
Reading through those messages, I had a George Bailey moment. You know that scene in It’s a Wonderful Life when George realizes how many people care about him? It wasn’t any single message that got me. It was the collective act of love. Students past, present, and never taught taking the time to send my dad their prayers and thoughts. In doing that, they sent me their love.
The Thank You Note That Made Me Cry
My dad loved the poster. He said it was a reflection of what my students think of me. As a parent myself, I get it. I think he was proud. I know he was grateful.
He wrote a thank you note on hospital stationery. My mom, a retired special ed teacher who is a true original, made an envelope out of hospital stationery and drew a picture of my dad on it. It’s hilarious and perfect.
The note read:
“Thank you for the poster of encouragement. When something like this happens the thing one looks for is hope. When it is made obvious that others care that brings hope. I also believe that there is much power and strength generated from prayer. I sincerely thank you for caring, praying, and making that evident.”
The following week, I read this note to my students. And that’s when I cried. Not when I told them about the diagnosis, not when they gave me the poster, but when I shared my dad’s note. It didn’t last long, though. I was real for a minute, then they made me laugh, and then we moved on to the lesson.
Why Students Are Actually Pretty Amazing
Let’s put this tired narrative to rest right now. You know the one.
I hear it constantly. From other adults, from the news, from social media. “Kids these days” are entitled, distracted, selfish, glued to their phones, disrespectful.
And yet.
And yet when their teacher needed them, they showed up. They organized. They cared. They took time out of their chaotic teenage lives to send hope to a man they’d never met because he matters to someone who matters to them.
That poster is still in my dad’s hospital room. He’s responding well to treatment and will be heading home soon for outpatient care. We’re hopeful—in part because of good doctors and modern medicine, and in part because of the tangible reminder that people care.
The Power of Vulnerability in the Classroom
Here’s what I learned from deciding to be vulnerable instead of compartmentalized:
Students can handle our humanity. In fact, showing vulnerability in the classroom often deepens trust and strengthens relationships. They don’t need us to be perfect, unshakeable robots. They need us to be real people navigating real challenges. That’s what prepares them for adulthood better than any lesson plan ever could.
Trust begets trust. When I trusted my students with something personal and difficult, they responded with maturity and compassion. They rose to the occasion because I gave them the chance to.
Positive classroom culture happens when we let it—when we trust students with our real stories and see how they rise to meet us with compassion.
Vulnerability isn’t weakness. I was afraid I’d fall apart if I talked about my dad’s diagnosis. Instead, being honest gave my students the opportunity to care for me the way I try to care for them every day. That’s not weakness. That’s relationship.
How Building Relationships with Students Changes Everything
I know not every personal situation is appropriate to share with students. There’s wisdom in maintaining boundaries. But I also think we’ve overcorrected in some ways, building walls so high that students never see us as fully human.
When we share our challenges (appropriately and thoughtfully), we model resilience. When we accept their kindness, we teach them the power of community. When we cry in front of them and then laugh a few minutes later, we show them that emotions are part of being alive—not something to hide or be ashamed of.
My dad’s situation reminded me why this job can be so meaningful. Not because of curriculum or test scores or even the joy of a perfectly executed lesson. But because of moments like these. When a group of teenagers decides to make a poster, when former students sign it even though they haven’t been in my class in a year or two, when the girl who organized it all just quietly hands it to me and smiles.
That’s teaching. That’s what kindness in schools looks like. And that’s why students are extraordinary.
My dad is currently in treatment and responding well. We’re grateful for modern medicine, for prayers, for the incredible medical team at Northside Hospital, and for a poster board full of encouragement that reminds us daily that we’re not in this alone. Thank you to every student, colleague, and community member who took the time to care.
Have you ever shared a personal story with your students? What happened when you did? Share your experience on Instagram and tag me [@leah_cleary]. Let’s celebrate the extraordinary power of connection in the classroom.
