He Built a Feelings Corner—Then Found His Own

Ben Taught First Grade—and Everyone Felt Safe There but Him

Ben was the kind of elementary school teacher who made every kid feel like the main character. He turned sight word practice into treasure hunts, taught counting with jelly beans and jump ropes, and kept a “Feelings Corner” stocked with plush toys and laminated emotion cards. He could spot a brewing meltdown before the first tear fell and knew when a child needed a hall pass or just a hug.

He was beloved. The kind of teacher who remembered birthdays, who let kids sit under his desk when the world felt too loud, who taught conflict resolution with sock puppets and a dash of theater. If a student said, “I’m sad,” Ben would say, “Let’s name that sadness and give it a hug.”

But Ben never named his own.

He was always “fine.” Even when his partner left. Even when his father passed quietly in hospice. Even when the school piled on more duties and fewer resources. He joked that he was “held together by coffee and construction paper.” We laughed. He made it easy.

After retirement, the silence was deafening. No morning bell. No tiny voices. Just Ben, a stack of old lesson plans, and a creeping sense of disconnection. He filled his days with volunteering and crossword puzzles, but something was missing. He felt numb. Not sad—just... blank.

It wasn’t until he snapped during a poker game with friends—over a missed flush and a teasing jab—that the dam broke. His voice cracked. His hands shook. And afterward, he said, “I don’t know why that got to me. I think I’ve been holding things in for years.”

So he started small. He wrote letters he never sent. Cried during a rewatch of Steel Magnolias—not at the funeral scene, but when M’Lynn finally lets herself fall apart. That moment hit too close. He let himself say “I’m lonely” without a punchline. And slowly, the man who taught emotional literacy to six-year-olds began learning it for himself.

Empathy on the Rocks is for people like Ben. The ones who built sanctuaries for others but forgot to build one for themselves. It’s a place to unlearn the silence, to name the ache, and to remember that emotional honesty isn’t weakness—it’s wisdom.

Because sometimes the bravest thing a teacher can do is become the student. And sometimes the best lesson plan starts with: “Today, I feel.”