There’s a side of being an educator we don’t talk about much.

At least not in staff meetings. Maybe over coffee. Definitely in therapy.

It’s not just about caring. It’s about pattern recognition. 

It’s a very human thing.

And God knows, the kiddos already think of me as anything but human.

In my role as the disciplinarian, I tell kids what’s wrong with their behavior.
They are ninth graders. Fourteen. Fifteen. Convinced they have already unlocked the secrets of the universe.

It sounds something like this:

“Don’t do this. You’re going to get in trouble.”
“This will come back and bite you.”
“Help me understand what you thought was going to happen here.”
“Boy… you went and done did forget yourself, didn’t you?”

You know. The classics.

And in return?

Eye rolls.
Heavy sighs.
That look that says, This man has no idea how 2026 works.

I get called old. Overdue. Past due.
I’m informed that I don’t know what’s going on.

And I nod.

Fast forward four years.

They’re seniors now.
Credits matter.
Deadlines matter.
Recommendations suddenly matter a whole lot.

And wouldn’t you know it — the forecast I mentioned freshman year starts looking less hypothetical.

When they’re freshmen, I’m basically the weather channel.

“Storm coming.”
“High winds ahead.”
“Chance of consequences.”

And they’re outside in shorts saying, “Looks sunny to me.”

Some of them stay in the storm.

But many?
Many adjust.

They mature.
They tighten up.
They start thinking two steps ahead instead of two minutes ahead.

Those are the conversations I love.

Most of them will never say, “Yeah, Mr. Velez, you were right.”

And honestly, I don’t need them to.

If I ever got close to saying “I told you so,” it would probably come out like this:

“It’s not that I was right. It’s that you realized you had somewhere to go.”

Because that’s the truth.

They don’t change because I warned them.
They change because eventually life starts collecting receipts.

Every missed assignment.
Every referral.
Every burned bridge.

Teenagers resist because they’re supposed to. Independence requires friction. 

Growth requires data. And four years gives them plenty of data.

Sometimes one of them will say:

“I didn’t think it mattered.”
“I thought you were just being strict.”
“I didn’t think it would stack up.”

And I’ll nod.

Of course you didn’t.

Freshman year: warnings.
Sophomore year: patterns.
Junior year: pressure.
Senior year: clarity.

Somewhere along the way, they stop arguing with the forecast and start bringing an umbrella.

It was never really about being right.

It was about time.

About letting them collect enough evidence to convince themselves.

Because growth doesn’t stick when it’s borrowed.
It sticks when it’s earned.

And if, years later, one of them ever looks at me and says, “Yeah… I guess you were onto something.”

I’ll probably shrug.
Maybe raise an eyebrow.
Maybe pretend I don’t remember the exact conversation from four years ago.

And I’ll say,

“It’s not that I was right. It’s that you figured it out.”

Pause.

Beat.

Then somewhere, deep down — where only educators and therapists can hear it —

Yeah.

I told you so.

There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com. Telling stories, sharing thoughts, and drinking coffee. A blend of fiction, reflection, and whatever’s brewing – one post at a time.