Maybe… just maybe, if Moshe could do it, so could I?

The principal of a new seminary called me today, asking if I can please, please, please speak at their seminary’s Yom Iyun. She was practically begging. Between taking care of my kids and teaching in several places, my schedule is stretched thin. I had to decline, but the fact that this rebbetzin had heard great things about my lectures was flattering.

And shocking.

I still have to catch myself sometimes, remind myself I’m not who I once was, take in the knowledge that I’m now a sought-after speaker.

How did this surprising meteoric rise to fame happen?

I’ve come a long way from that first model lesson in seminary. But my transformation precedes that by at least a decade.

The comments on my report card were predictable: “We wish she would share more in class!” “Such depth, she could potentially contribute so much.” “Quiet, but an important asset to the grade.”

And each semester, it burned anew.

Because my teachers were right, and I knew it. I did have ideas to add, perspectives to share, important insights that could add a layer to class discussions. But my love of sharing my inner world — which was certainly there, I had a secret dream of eventually becoming a teacher — was pushed way, way down, under layers of humiliation.