The Voice That Said I Couldn't

What Happens When The Teachers Are The Bullies

I have learned to forgive, but never to forget.

And I will never forget Mrs. Pringle, a teacher I had in high school, who recently met up with fellow classmates, and when asked why she bullied me, she said something like, “Because it was too easy.”

I went to DASH — Design and Architecture Senior High — in sunny Miami, Florida. It was the kind of school that people pointed to with pride, a beacon for young creatives who didn’t quite fit the traditional mold. From the outside, it looked like an incredible place full of vibrant energy, raw talent, and students buzzing with ambition. And in some ways, it truly was. There were moments of brilliance, of inspiration, of collaboration that felt like magic. But the reality inside those walls was much messier.

It often felt like a free-for-all, where the boundaries between guidance and rivalry were blurred. Instead of mentoring us, the teachers seemed like they were competing with us — as if our success somehow threatened theirs. We were expected to produce college-level portfolios, yet half the time, we didn’t even have the proper supplies. Broken easels, dried-up paint, scavenged scraps from leftover projects — that was our daily toolkit.

And while students quietly struggled to balance creative passion with emotional burnout, chaos brewed in every corner. Some of it loud and disruptive, some of it subtle and festering. The administration seemed checked out. The principal, in particular, had a distant, distracted air — like she was always somewhere else, eyes glassy, a little too relaxed for someone in charge of a school full of teenagers trying to hold their lives together with hot glue and gesso.

In that environment, being misunderstood wasn’t the exception — it was the norm. For students like me, who needed structure, encouragement, and space to grow, it felt like we were left to fend for ourselves. I went to boarding school for a semester in my junior year just to escape the bad dreams that occurred during my waking life.

It’s hard enough being a teenager, trying to figure out who you are, what matters, where you fit. I already felt like I was swimming against the current, quiet when others were loud, unsure when others seemed confident, seeing the world a little differently. I thought teachers were supposed to be the people who saw your potential even when you didn’t, the ones who lifted you when you were low. But Mrs. Pringle? She made it her mission to knock me down. And I know now that I wasn’t the only one.

She’d pick on me in front of the class, roll her eyes when I answered questions, and smirk when I struggled. I used to sit there wishing I could melt into the floor, hoping anyone would say something. But they never did. And the silence felt just as cruel. I started to believe her voice. That I wasn’t good enough. That I wasn’t going anywhere.

Her treatment of me back then felt like a twisted kind of foreshadowing — a small taste of what she must have assumed I’d face in New York. The unkindness, the coldness, the relentless pace, the rejection — it was almost like she wanted me to be broken by it, as if she believed I wouldn’t survive outside the walls of that classroom.

When I first moved to New York, I carried all that weight with me. I wasn’t just chasing a dream — I was running from a lie she planted in my head. Every early morning, every rejection, every long shift, and late night, I kept hearing her voice. And it lit a fire in me. I wanted so badly to prove her wrong. I needed to. Not just for her, but for the younger version of me who sat in that classroom, shrinking each day, thinking there was no way out.

That voice lingered as I started to find my footing in the city. It was like a ghost that followed me into every meeting and every new room I entered. When I got the chance to attend my first Paris Fashion Week, I should’ve been overwhelmed with excitement — and I was — but underneath the surface, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I kept imagining what Mrs. Pringle would have said if she saw me there. Probably something cutting, like how I didn’t belong or must’ve stumbled in by mistake.

But when I walked into the Miu Miu show, something shifted. The lights, the energy, and the quiet reverence of people who took creativity seriously felt like another world. And at that moment, I realized I had broken the curse she had put on me. The one that said I was nothing. That I wouldn’t make it. That I didn’t deserve a seat at the table. Being there didn’t just feel like an achievement — it felt like freedom. Like I had finally stepped into the version of myself she tried to convince me could never exist.

Even now, after all I’ve done and all I’ve become, her voice still echoes sometimes. That’s the thing about words — they stick. They sneak in when you’re tired or uncertain, replaying like old recordings you didn’t know were still running in the background. And in a city like New York, where sharp edges are everywhere and softness can feel like a liability, I’ve come across more Mrs. Pringles than I care to count. Sometimes I wonder if the world is divided into two kinds of people — the ones who crush dreams, and the ones who protect them.

My mom and I have this long-running joke: whenever someone asks where I went to high school, I smile and say, 'I didn’t.’ I still cry all the time — some days out of joy, some out of frustration, some just because life is heavy — but not because of Mrs. Pringle. Not anymore. Now my tears come from the weight of real things — love, growth, exhaustion — not from the wounds she left behind.

What I’ve learned, though, is that her voice doesn’t get to define me anymore. It’s just one voice. And it’s grown quieter with every step I’ve taken toward becoming the person I always hoped to be.

In some twisted way, Mrs. Pringle helped me. Not because she taught me anything about design or fashion or literature or life. But because her unkindness gave me something to push against. It made me determined. It made me fight. And for that — only that — I have her to thank.