"All You Do Is Point at Things"

This morning I carved out a little time for myself and went to get my nails done. You know how those moments feel, quiet, still, a little indulgent in the best way. As a teacher and a mom, I don’t get those very often. So I sat down, ready to relax, scroll Pinterest for a classroom idea or two, and let someone take care of me for a change.

Next to me were two women, chatting easily with their nail tech. From their conversation, I picked up that they were OBGYN residents, clearly intelligent, ambitious, and likely running on very little sleep. We exchanged polite hellos, the kind you do when you know you’ll be sitting side-by-side for the next half hour.

They were telling their nail tech about hospital policies, how their nails could be long, but they had to be neutral in color. Nothing too bold. Just part of their dress code.

One of them looked over at me and asked what I was getting. I am guessing she noticed my awesome nail tech dipping my nails with hot pink. I smiled, turned my phone around, and showed her the inspiration photo I’d brought with me, beautiful almonded shape, with a crazy design, the typical “me” nails.

Then came the question:
"What do you do for work?"

I answered honestly, proudly:
"I’m a teacher."

What she said next completely caught me off guard.

"Oh yeah, you can have long nails because all you do is point at things."

It felt like the air got sucked out of the room. Her nail tech literally gasped. My own tech looked up quickly and then just went back to filing. And I?

I froze.

I smiled faintly, but I couldn’t find a single word to say. Not one. I sat in stunned silence for the rest of my appointment—quietly thinking, quietly hurting.

And here’s the thing: I don’t know if she meant it as a joke. I don’t think she said it to be cruel. But it landed like a slap. Because in that one sentence, my profession—my passion—was reduced to a gesture.

“All you do is point at things.”

If only she knew.

If only she knew how many times a day I point at things, yes—but not just for the sake of direction. I point to help a child sound out a word they never thought they’d read. I point to show a student their name on a chart because today, for the first time, they earned a sticker for staying on task. I point to calendar numbers, anchor charts, hearts on classroom rules. I point to possibilities. I point to growth. I point to hope.

But my hands also do so much more than point.

They pull tiny kids into hugs when they’re overwhelmed.
They cut, glue, staple, and erase.
They hand out Band-Aids and gold stars, sharpen pencils, tie shoes, clean up spills, and clap for victories.
They carry the emotional weight of my class.
They grade work at night when the world is quiet and everyone thinks my day is done.

And let’s not forget: my heart goes home with me just as tired as theirs does, sometimes more.

I teach kids how to read, how to subtract, how to ask for help, how to say “I’m sorry.” I notice when they’re off. I listen when they need someone to care. I do so much more than point.

But that morning in the salon, I didn’t defend myself. I just sat in silence, because I was too stunned, too sad, and honestly too tired to explain.

Later, in the car, I started to think about what I could have said if I’d had the words in the moment. Something kind but honest. Something that doesn’t diminish her work, because I respect the heck out of medical professionals, but also doesn’t allow mine to be dismissed.

I think I would’ve said:

“Yes, sometimes I point. But mostly, I lift. I lift hearts, minds, and sometimes even burdens. That’s what teaching is.”

So if you’re a teacher reading this, and someone has ever tried to minimize what you do—take a deep breath. You don’t have to prove your worth to anyone. You know what you do. You know who you are. And you know what your calling is.

And next time someone says something that stings, maybe we can hold our heads high and simply say:

“I don’t just point. I guide.”

Because we do. Every single day.