My Mouth Will Always Get Me in Trouble - Past is Prologue
One thing about me is my mouth will always get me in trouble. Whether it was talking too much in class, speaking up against things I found unfair, or getting into arguments I had no business being in, I have always let my words lead the way. I learned to speak complete sentences by the time I was 2, and frankly, I don’t know if I have ever stopped to take a breath since. When you have four older sisters, you must learn to get your words in and make them count. In my family, we were constantly reminded of how much power we held in our words. How easy it was to build someone up or tear them down just by what and how you say things. I remember our one household rule: never say, “I love you, but.” My Mom told us that every time you add “but,” you are implying that what’s following is more important than the “I love you,” and nothing is more important than “I love you.” The power of words became a leading theme in my life. To this day, I constantly consider the value of what I have to say and how I can contribute to greater conversations. It is because of these values that I feel drawn to use my voice for those who struggle to find theirs. Because even though I have found my voice now, that wasn’t always the case.
I enjoyed school, but for a long time, it felt like school didn’t enjoy me. Report cards became a predictable chorus:
“A good student, but lacks focus.”
“Performs well but is easily distracted.”
“Struggles to stay on task and frequently spends class time talking with her peers.”
I did well, but never good enough to stand out and never badly enough for anyone to think anything was wrong. Most of my early years were spent in various areas of the classroom, moving my desk around until the teacher could find somewhere that I wouldn’t talk so much. Spoiler alert: it didn’t matter where I sat. When inside the classroom didn’t work, I would do the shameful walk as I dragged my desk across the class and placed it outside the doorway. The hallway was nice and better than the principal’s office. So, I tried not to complain too much. There was a long period of my life where I thought that I was the problem. It was my fault that I couldn’t focus, that I couldn’t stop fidgeting, that I just couldn’t stop talking. As long as I balanced my grades above average, there never was a need to intervene. I began to mask myself in the classroom and in my friendships, presenting a version of myself that felt more acceptable to others but increasingly alien to me. The older I got, the harder it was to maintain. Fist fights, detention, and calls home became consistent as I battled with my identity. I decided that if I couldn’t be “the good kid,” my only other option was to be “the bad kid.” And being bad came so easily, even when it wasn’t my intention.
Looking back now, what made me “bad” was finding my voice against a system that I felt wasn’t made for people like me. It was easy to figure out that adults hated hearing “why.” Why are we learning this? Why can’t I draw while I work if it helps me listen? Why can’t I stand up against somebody who is relentlessly harassing me? Though I’ve since learned that violence isn’t the solution, at the time, it felt like the only way to regain control. My “whys” were always perceived as me disrespecting authority. With every question came a lecture about listening to adults just because they were adults. Usually, my “why” was never meant to be disrespectful. It came from a place of genuine curiosity. But when everyone assumes you are just being rude by asking, you begin to feel more comfortable asking the rude questions. I was willing to take the bullets, the label of “the bad kid,” whatever it is you want to call it, as long as it helped me better understand the world and systems I was living in. It felt like “why” was a bad word everywhere except at home. At home, we had an open dialogue where we could ask questions, get explanations, and feel supported. My parents raised me to believe nothing is set in stone and everything is up for negotiation as long as you make a good point. This, however, was not an ideal belief system to bring into the classroom. In fact, questioning and offering suggestions to improve the classroom, especially as a child, comes across very rudely. Or so I have learned. “You won’t get away with this in the real world”was a comment I became pretty familiar with.
My reputation was less than favourable when I reached high school. I had somehow become a back-talking, trouble-making, constantly absent… honours student? Balancing a chronic illness, which caused frequent absences for doctor visits, I learned early on to manage my grades despite missing class. And when I realized my grades stayed strong regardless, I started skipping for more fun reasons—like hanging out with friends or spending math class at McDonald’s. Why did it matter what I missed if my grades were good anyway? When they sat me down and told me my attendance needed to improve, I would bring up my favourite curse word, “why.” I was already on the honour roll; it’s not like my grades could be that much better if I attended more. When they called my Mom to complain, she said the same thing. My grades were excellent, my social relationships were better, and really, I was doing everyone a favour by not being an in-class distraction. I decided to take a blend of self-led and in-school classes for the remainder of high school. That way, I could get support when I needed it, but I could also get ahead and work independently for the classes I was most successful in. I liked school more when I could take control of the delivery of my learning materials. Before I even understood what I was doing, I was making accommodations for my learning style, and it was successful. Even though it was through the lens of rebellion at the time, I was discovering how to advocate for myself in a healthy and positive manner. This system worked perfectly all through high school. I graduated and applied for university, got into my first choice school and felt secure. Then university happened.
Despite my successes in high school, I soon realized that university would present challenges I had never encountered before. University was a hit to my ego, my mental health, and my grades. It turns out that teachers can and will still pull you out of class to berate you, even at the university level. Nothing is more humbling than spending your tuition to be yelled at over a first-year art class. Living on my own for the first time and living in a new city took a toll. It felt like everything was out of control; everyone had these huge expectations of me, and I couldn’t do anything about it. This time, there was nothing to speak up against, no system or structure I felt was failing me. This time, I was failing myself. And I really didn’t know what to do. I spent all that time in high school cultivating control, and then suddenly, I was back to my younger self, dragging desks out of the classroom and my pride along with it. Feeling overwhelmed by the transition, I sought therapy as a last resort. It was because of her I sat in a psychiatrist’s office for the first time and had ADHD and Autism presented to me. We talked about how these instances in my childhood where I was unfocused, chatty, questioning, and curious were all byproducts of these diagnoses, which were easily masked by my academic success and social understanding. But why, at 20 years old, was I struggling with these things? Why now? It didn’t make sense. It came down to the way life transitions often reveal vulnerabilities within ourselves. For once, I was aware of these vulnerabilities and my own role in my experience. Shortly after the psychiatrist’s visits, I started behavioural counselling and medication. I signed up for disability accommodations and went from nearing academic probation to a three-time Dean’s List award winner. I became the student I always knew I was capable of becoming but didn’t know how. This sparked me to question my earlier learning experiences—how my diverse learning needs were dismissed as disruptions. And sure, I had been able to succeed, but how many other students slipped through the gaps? Couldn’t identify where they needed accommodations or how to ask for them? It made me consider all of the hurt I internalized when I was younger—the days spent cursing my brain for its constant noise. Even now, I sometimes still feel like that learner. I get nervous to ask questions because I worry that someone will take it wrong. It’s a constant reminder of the little girl who I once was.
As I navigated my newly embraced role as a person with disabilities, that little girl lingered within me. This helped shape my approach to being an early childhood educator. Throughout high school and my undergraduate degree, I also worked part-time in a daycare. My coworkers would tell you I was a “bad kid” magnet and that I had a way of working with the children that other staff ran out of patience on. These so-called “bad kids” were my favourite children to bond with because I saw myself in them—the behaviours, the impulsiveness, the need to belong, and the untamed curiosity. I saw a fire inside these children that was regularly under attack inside myself. I saw their fire and gave it the fuel I wished I had been given. I began to take the skills I learned in my own behavioural counselling and applied them to my interactions with these kids. The most life-changing interaction was with a young boy I call “J.” He was an absolute wild child; the day he joined our toddler room, he was thrust through the door with a “good luck!” from his previous teachers and a sarcastic smile. He was non-verbal, showing signs of significant delays, struggled socially and had so much unbridled energy. One moment, he would be lining up animals, and the next, he was on the top of the bookshelf, missing a shoe and singing BINGO at the top of his lungs. Over time, J and I became best buds. I found little things he liked to do together, like reading out the letters around the room, singing BINGO, and a very specific alphabet song that I’ll never get out of my head. I remember sitting beside him at lunch one day and asking him if the peas he was eating were yummy; I spelled out the word and mentioned P is for Peas; he looked me in the eyes for the first time and tried to place one of the peas in my mouth. It was the first time he connected with what I was saying, and he initiated a social-emotional interaction with me. On that day, I ate peas for the first time since my own Mom tried to make me eat them, and something changed in my heart (but not my opinion on peas). I shifted from wondering if I could ever work with this child to spending my personal time designing learning materials and games for us to use in the classroom. Alphabet cards, posters with his name, and anything else I could think of to support this new connection we forged.
The learning materials I designed for J were the catalyst for my undergraduate capstone project. There was always a lingering sadness inside me that I would one day be leaving childcare to pursue full-time graphic design. I had come to love both fields so deeply. Design is where I could be a problem-solver, a communicator, and an artist, but childcare is where I could connect, educate, and inspire. It wasn’t until days before our capstone project plan was due that I realized that maybe I could do both. I thought about my passion for designing for J and my struggles in the classroom growing up. I presented this idea of designing for children with disabilities in early childhood environments to my advisor. I told her how the designs I did for J helped us cultivate a bond that we once thought wasn’t possible for him, and she told me, “This would make a great master’s thesis, too,” and approved my project. I never considered getting a master’s degree. Was I even master’s material? I still see myself as the trouble-making bad kid sometimes, was she master’s material? I put that idea in my back pocket and focused on completing my bachelor’s first. I conducted a semester of research, looking into learning materials, interviewing and surveying educators, and identifying the gaps in my field. For our research presentation, I talked about my passion for childcare, the research that was conducted, and my direction for the next semester. I was feeling really good. Then, I spoke to my professor. I remember the room suddenly feeling cold and my stomach dropping as she said that I was “cocky,” “lacked humility,” and needed to “stop acting like the expert.” I was devastated. Somehow, I botched this presentation and felt like I let down myself and my coworkers, who were my biggest cheerleaders in this project. I decided that if she needed more evidence and professional opinions, that would be exactly what she would get. To this day, I’m not sure if she knew what she was doing when she said those things, but she sparked a drive in me that I had never felt before. I dedicated myself to this project and went harder than any other project I’ve done. I did more research. More co-design sessions. More testing. Whatever it took to prove that this project was more than just a product of my pride but of my investment in bettering the lives of children in care.
The MindSET Social-Emotional Toolkit was a multi-part system providing interactive tools and evidence-based strategies for addressing challenging behaviours. The toolkit was designed to be a valuable resource for educators seeking to create a more positive and supportive social-emotional learning environment for children with diverse needs. I was, and am still, incredibly proud of this project. Not only for the work that went into it but also for the reason I started in the first place. Even though the class was done and I got the grade I wanted, I didn’t feel like the project was finished. The words “you are not the expert” rang in my head. She was right; I am not an expert, but a master’s degree would help me get there. It would further prove my passion for research in this area, open new doors to networking opportunities, and maybe inspire more projects and work in the cross-sectional field of design and early childhood education. The greatest influence would be if the work could impact the lives of the children who inspired it all—the children like J. Like me.
Finding my voice was not easy; It took the breakdown and redefining of my identity to recognize who and how I wanted to be. On my own terms, in my own time. Whether it was framed as rebellion or empowerment, learning to advocate for myself was a turning point in my personal and career goals. I can feel my inner child cheering me on with every achievement, like maybe we won’t always carry the stigma of feeling like a bad person, a bad kid. It’s this connection to my inner child that fuels me to continually learn from and speak up for the children around us. As I move deeper into my research, I am reminded of the power of a mind that has yet to be dampened by rejection. A mind unafraid to question everything. Unafraid to ask why. Research that centres these voices is key to creating tools that empower children to express themselves, especially in a world that often misunderstands or overlooks their perspectives. The project that ignited my journey into this field was inspired by one child—a small voice just beginning to learn how to be heard. This is a testament to how voices, even when unspoken, hold immense power. Though I had the words, there were years when I struggled to find my true voice. Now, I am determined to use that voice not only to advocate for myself but to empower others, especially children, to find and amplify their own-- even if that means being seen as troublemakers in the pursuit of something more. I know that my mouth will always get me in trouble, but sometimes, a little trouble is exactly what the world needs.