I hate being a teacher, sometimes. Part of the job means building a relationships with students. That means showing whanaungatanga. That implies aroha. That implies a level of care beyond the academics, beyond grades, beyond awards. You want to see them grow and succeed as though they were part of your own whānau, your own family, your own children.
Today, I learnt of the tragic news that one of my former students had passed away in a traffic accident. It was reported that the driver died at the scene and I believe my student to have been the driver. I hope they didn't suffer.
Earlier in the year, another student took their own life just a few days shy of the start of Year 13, their final year of school.
That's two students that I've lost this year.
Two that I taught. Two that I saw succeed. Two who showed a promising future. Two who willingly and gladly gave their time to help others. Two with some of the most wicked smiles that instantly lit up my classrooms. Two that I'll never see one day in the streets, happily telling me about the amazing things that they've gotten up to.