“My Mom Was Right”: What Families Know About Teaching That We Ignore

Before she became a teacher, Kelly Mitchell’s mom questioned her decision. And later, after everything Kelly experienced in education, she said plainly, "My mom was right." That moment didn’t surprise me, but it sat with me. Because I often think about the ways our families try to warn us about becoming educators.

For many of us, those warnings aren’t random; they’re rooted in history. They come from parents and grandparents who lived through school integration after Brown v. Board of Education, who experienced bussing not as a policy but as something that disrupted, displaced, and harmed. They remember what it felt like to enter schools that weren’t designed to protect or nurture them. They remember the trauma, even if they don’t always name it that way. So when Kelly talked about her mom’s hesitation, I didn’t hear doubt. I heard protection. I heard a mother who understood something deeply that education, as a system, has never been neutral for us.

I think about my own daughter. If she told me she wanted to become an educator after everything I’ve experienced, I’d be afraid for her. Not because I don’t believe in teaching. Not because I don’t believe in students. But because I understand what this system can do to a person’s spirit, their body, and their sense of self.

When I think about what older Black folks have shared about education, the message is consistent, even when it’s unspoken. You can’t fully trust these systems. You have to take care of yourself. Focus on the kids, but be careful with the adults. Don’t lose yourself trying to survive in that place. And for some of us, the warning was more direct. My father told me I was too smart to become a teacher. At the time, I heard that as dismissal. But looking back, I hear what his experiences taught him. He grew up in Detroit Public Schools and didn’t see Black genius reflected back in his teachers. To him, becoming an educator meant settling. That belief didn’t come from nowhere. It came from what he saw.  And still, I became an educator. Because many of us do. We enter the profession not because we’re unaware of the warnings, but because we feel called. We love students. We love learning. We’re born to teach. And the most accessible, visible pathway for that calling is the classroom. We don’t start off thinking about building freedom schools or creating something new. We walk into the systems that already exist.

But here’s the truth I’ve come to understand through my own experience, my research, and the stories shared on The Exit Interview: our families weren’t wrong. Not every Black educator experiences harm in the same way. Some thrive. Some build long, meaningful careers. But for many of us, the cost is real. And when we ignore that intergenerational wisdom, we end up paying for it in ways we weren’t prepared for. We pay for it in our mental health. We pay for it in our bodies. We pay for it in the slow dimming of something that once felt like light.

And our families see it. They watch us come home exhausted. They hear the stories we tell. They feel the weight we carry. And it confirms what they already believed, that this system wasn’t built for us.

What I’ve also learned, through my dissertation and through nearly every conversation on my podcast, is that this impact is never isolated. When Black educators experience harm, it ripples. We talk to our families. We text our friends. We process in community. And that ripple becomes collective knowing. It shapes how our communities see education. It shapes whether our children want to enter the profession. It shapes whether the next generation even considers teaching as a possibility.

So when a Black parent discourages their child from becoming an educator, it’s not because they don’t value education. It’s because they don’t trust the system. And honestly, they have every reason not to.

I want to be clear about something. There’s no shame in being a classroom teacher. There’s no shame in entering the profession through the pathways that exist. But there is harm in pretending those pathways are neutral, or safe, or sustainable for everyone.

So this is what I want to say.

To Black parents: you’re not wrong for wanting your children to be safe. You’re not wrong for mourning what this profession can take from them. We understand that your concern is rooted in love.

To aspiring Black educators: you deserve to teach, but you also deserve to be well. You need language for what you’re experiencing. You need community outside of your school. You need spaces for joy, for healing, for truth-telling. Don’t make the classroom your entire world.

And to school systems: when you recruit Black educators, you’re not just recruiting individuals. You’re asking entire families and communities to take a risk. People move across the country. They leave support systems behind. They bring their whole lives with them. And when you ignore that, when you focus only on numbers and representation, you don’t just lose the educator. You lose everything that came with them.

If I could speak directly to Kelly’s mom, and to so many mothers like her, I’d say this: You did the right thing. You said what you needed to say. You saw what needed to be seen. And your love showed up as protection. And we hear you now.