The Confession I Never Made
I need to admit something. Something that makes me want to hide under my desk and whisper, "Not today, brain, I’m too busy being a fraud." For the past five years, I’ve been invited into elementary schools to talk about "kindness" – you know, the whole "be kind, it’s cool" thing. I’d stand in front of 20 wide-eyed third-graders, holding up a glittery "Kindness Rocks" poster, and deliver a speech about how being nice makes the world spin a little smoother. And I lied. Oh, I didn’t lie about kindness. I lied to myself about whether I was even qualified to talk about it. Because the truth is, I’ve been a walking, talking, slightly chaotic monument to not being kind to myself. And that’s the secret I kept buried under layers of "just do the gig" and "they don’t need to know my mess."
Here’s the thing nobody wants to say out loud: I avoided teaching kindness because I felt like a complete fraud. I’d sit in my car outside the school, heart pounding like a trapped bird, thinking, How can I tell kids to be kind when I’m still screaming at my own reflection in the mirror for not being "enough"? I’d rehearse my "kindness" speech in my head, but my brain would hijack it: Yeah, and then you cried in the bathroom because you spilled coffee on your favorite shirt, Sheila. How’s that "kind" to yourself? I’d skip the part where I’m supposed to share my struggles – the ones where I’d rather curl up under the covers than face the world, the ones where my anxiety whispers, "They all hate you," and I believe it. I’d just say, "Be kind!" and hope they didn’t notice my hands shaking.
The Lie I Told Myself
I know, I know. It’s ridiculous. A comedian who’s spent 20 years making people laugh about the absurdity of not being okay, and I was too scared to admit I wasn’t okay. I thought, If I admit I’m not kind, they’ll think I’m a bad person. Or worse, they’ll think kindness is a lie. So I perfected the "I’m fine, I’m great, let’s all be happy!" act. I’d say things like, "Being kind is easy! Just smile and share your toys!" while internally screaming, I haven’t shared my own toys in weeks because I’m too busy feeling like a failure! I’d avoid eye contact with the kids who looked like they were struggling, because I couldn’t bear the thought of them asking, "But what if you’re not kind, Ms. Bishop?" I’d rather be the boring, perfect kindness robot than the messy human who sometimes just… isn’t.
The worst part? I’d see the kids trying to be kind, and it would make my own shame feel even heavier. Like the time a little girl named Maya, who always had a quiet sadness in her eyes, handed me a drawing of a stick figure holding hands with a rainbow. "This is for you," she whispered. "Because you’re nice." I smiled, took the drawing, and felt like a total impostor. I’m not nice, I thought. I’m just pretending to be nice because I’m scared they’ll see the mess. I wanted to say, "Maya, I’m not nice. I’m actually kind of a grumpy, anxious mess who sometimes yells at the mailman. But I try." But I didn’t. I just said, "Thank you, Maya," and put the drawing in my bag, where it sat for months, a tiny, accusing piece of my own hypocrisy.
The Moment It Cracked
It happened last Tuesday. I was doing my "Kindness Rocks" thing again, trying to make the kids "pass the kindness" by sharing a small, kind thing they’d done. A boy named Leo raised his hand. "I shared my cookies with my little sister," he said proudly. "She was sad because her dog got sick." I smiled, nodded, and then… I saw Maya. She was sitting quietly, her eyes fixed on me, not the activity. And then she said it, loud enough for the whole class to hear: "Ms. Bishop? You’re sad."
The room went quiet. My face burned. I’d been trying so hard to look happy, to be happy, for them. And she’d seen right through it. My throat closed up. I wanted to say, "No, I’m not sad, I’m just… focused!" But the words wouldn’t come. So I just… stopped. I took a breath. And I said, "You know what, Maya? You’re right. I am a little sad today. And you know why? Because I’m not always kind to myself. I get grumpy. I feel like I’m failing. And that’s okay. It’s okay to not be perfect." I didn’t say it perfectly. My voice shook. I didn’t have a grand solution. I just… was.
And then something amazing happened. Leo, the cookie-sharing boy, leaned over and whispered to Maya, "Yeah, I’m sad sometimes too. My dog’s still sick." And Maya nodded, her eyes still on me, but softer now. "It’s okay," she said. "We all feel sad sometimes." The room didn’t collapse. The kids didn’t run away. They just… got it. They didn’t need me to be perfect. They just needed me to be real.
What Changed When I Stopped Pretending
That moment changed everything. I stopped pretending I was a paragon of kindness. I started admitting my own struggles in the classroom, not as a big secret, but as a normal part of being human. I’d say things like, "Okay, so I really wanted to yell at the person who cut me off in traffic today. But I took a deep breath instead. That’s what I call 'kindness to myself' – not yelling at the driver, even though I really wanted to." I’d share how I’d messed up with a friend and had to apologize, and how that felt better than pretending I was perfect. I stopped saying "Be kind!" and started saying "Be kind to yourself first. Because if you don’t, you can’t be kind to anyone else."
And you know what? The kids got it. They started sharing their struggles. "I yelled at my brother," one girl admitted. "But I said sorry." "I felt bad when I didn’t share my crayons," another whispered. It wasn’t about being perfect. It was about trying. And that’s the real lesson, isn’t it? Kindness isn’t about never being angry, never feeling sad, never being a grumpy mess. It’s about not letting that mess define you, and choosing to try again, even when you’re not feeling it.
I also realized something huge: I’d been so busy hiding my own struggles from the kids, I’d forgotten they see them. They see the stress in your shoulders, the way you sigh when you’re tired. They don’t need a perfect role model. They need a real one. A human who’s learning, just like them. So now, when I go into a classroom, I don’t say, "Be kind!" I say, "Hey, I’m kind of a mess sometimes too. But I’m trying. And that’s what matters."
The Practical Stuff (Because I Know You’re Thinking It)
So, how do you actually do this? How do you teach kindness without pretending you’ve got it all together? Here’s the raw, unpolished truth:
1. Start with your own messy kindness. Don’t say, "Be kind!" Say, "I’m trying to be kinder to myself today. I’m going to take a walk instead of yelling at my phone." Be the example of trying, not being perfect. 2. Don’t avoid the hard stuff. If a kid asks, "Why are you sad?" Don’t say, "I’m not sad!" Say, "You know what? I am sad right now. And it’s okay to feel sad. It doesn’t mean I’m not kind." That’s the lesson. 3. It’s not about fixing them. You don’t have to solve their sadness. You just have to say, "I see you. It’s okay to feel that way." That’s the kindest thing you can do. 4. Your "kindness" isn’t a performance. It’s not about being happy all the time. It’s about being present with the mess, both yours and theirs. It’s about saying, "I’m here, and I’m not perfect either."
I used to think teaching kindness meant I had to be the calm, happy, perfect person. I was wrong. The most powerful thing I can teach kids isn’t how to be perfect – it’s how to be human. It’s how to say, "I’m not okay right now, and that’s okay." It’s how to choose kindness even when you’re not feeling it, because you know what it’s like to feel like a mess.
The Real Confession
So, here’s the thing: I’m still not always kind. I still have days where I’m grumpy, where I snap at my cat, where I feel like I’m failing. But now, when I’m in that classroom, I don’t hide it. I say, "Okay, I’m a little grumpy today. But I’m going to try to be kind to myself anyway." And Maya, the little girl who called me out, she’s started bringing me drawings again. But now, she writes, "You’re kind, Ms. Bishop. Even when you’re grumpy." And I know she’s right. I’m not kind all the time. But I’m trying. And that’s the only kind of kindness that matters.
I used to think I had to be perfect to teach kindness. I was wrong. I just had to be real. And that’s the hardest, most beautiful thing of all.
— Sheila Bishop, laughing so I don't cry
— Kyle Smith, holding space