The Moment that Changed Everything.

 The Moment That Changed Everything 

I know the exact moment my life changed forever. The details of my last few minutes of “normal” are etched in my memory, and even after more than 3 decades, they remain as vivid as ever.

I was in first grade, skipping with my classmates to “Skip to My Lou, My Darling,” when the school secretary walked into the room. She called my name, and as I followed her to the office, fear crept into my chest. I had never been in trouble before. I rarely spoke, let alone misbehaved, so I racked my brain, trying to figure out what I had done wrong.

When I saw my aunt standing by the front doors, I exhaled in relief—until I noticed the tension in her face. Something was wrong. She wouldn’t answer my questions, only telling me to wait. As my siblings gathered at the front of the school, we had no idea what was happening. 

Then, we stepped outside, and I saw my mother in the front seat of my aunt’s car, sobbing uncontrollably. My grandparents hovered nearby, their faces stricken with grief. Something was terribly wrong.

I ran to my mom, panic surging through me. My small hands grasped hers as I looked up at her tear-streaked face. “What’s wrong, Mommy?” I asked, my voice trembling.

Through gasping sobs, she somehow found the strength to say the words that shattered my world: “Daddy was hit by a train.”

The air around me seemed to collapse. My chest tightened, and everything blurred. The world I knew—safe, predictable, full of my father’s love—was gone.

Waiting in Fear

The next eight days were a blur. In truth, much of the next half a year faded into a haze of pain and confusion, broken only by a few searingly clear moments.

I remember the first time I saw my father in the hospital. My hero—the man who had carried me on his shoulders, played tag with me in the rain, and made me feel safe—was now frail and motionless, tethered to machines. The rhythmic rise and fall of the ventilator was the only sign of life. I wasn’t allowed to touch him, and he couldn’t speak. I stood frozen, the sterile scent of the hospital burning in my nose. 

The days passed in hushed voices and dimly lit waiting rooms. I colored endless pages from books brought by kind people who knew and loved my daddy, trying to pretend everything was normal. But nothing would ever be the same again. The grown-ups tried to shield us from the worst of it, offering forced smiles and gentle reassurances, but I could see the truth in their eyes. They knew what was coming, even if I didn’t fully understand.

A Final Goodbye

A kind nurse laid me on my daddy’s chest one last time so I could hug him,  whisper my love to him, and say goodbye. There are no words for that moment. Some things are too sacred for language and too profound for description. Those last precious seconds—the feeling of his presence, the warmth of his body beneath mine—are mine alone. I hold onto them, knowing they were our final embrace.

Learning to Breathe Again

Life didn’t stop, though part of me wished it would. After missing three weeks of school, we were sent back. Our family-recognized routine can help with grief because everyone needs normalcy. But school wasn’t the same magical place it had once been. My seven-year-old mind twisted reality—I became convinced that every time I went to school, someone else I loved would die. Every time the classroom door opened, my heart leaped in fear. I withdrew, losing myself in books because reading was easier than speaking. If I didn’t talk to anyone, I wouldn’t cry.

But grief doesn’t stay hidden forever.

One day, I lost control. Tears welled up, spilling over as I tried desperately to hide my face behind my hair. My classmates noticed, and embarrassment made the sobs come harder. I slid under my desk, curling into a ball, shaking with the force of my pain.

And then, Mrs. Frederick—my teacher—saved me.

She knelt down, gently pulled me from beneath my desk, and held me close. She had sent all the other children out of the room, and it was just her and I, locked in this grief bubble. She rocked me in her arms like I was her own child, rubbing my back, whispering soft reassurances as I sobbed into her shoulder. I don’t know how long we stayed like that, just the two of us in the empty classroom.

Then, she did something that changed my life forever. She looked into my eyes, and with the purest love I had ever known outside my family, she said: “I love you, Alecia.”

The warmth of those words wrapped around my heart. She loved me. Not because she had to but because she genuinely cared. She asked me what my daddy would have wanted for my life. Would he want me to stop trying? Would he want me to stay lost in sadness, or would he want me to learn, grow, and become something? Then she made me promise to go to school for her until I could come for myself again. 

That was the moment.

The moment I knew I was going to be a teacher.

A teacher who would love her students, broken or not.

A teacher who would see the child behind the pain or behavior.

A teacher who would teach people, not just lessons.

A teacher like Mrs. Frederick.

Becoming “Mrs. Fred” for Others

That moment shaped the rest of my life. I don’t think I started going to school for myself ever again because I had a new mission. I went for something bigger: to serve others. I pushed through high school—a milestone in itself for my family. Then, I earned my Bachelor of Science in Education, the first step toward my dream. But I wasn’t done. I wanted to do more, be more, and help more children like me.

I pursued a Master of Arts in Teaching to support students with special needs—kids who, like me, needed more than just academic support. Then, I earned a Master’s in Educational Leadership to guide and support other teachers. And finally, I took on the biggest challenge of all: my Doctorate in Education (Ed.D.) in Organizational Leadership.

It was one of the hardest things I have ever done, but I did it. Not for myself—but for people who need someone like Mrs. Frederick to believe in them, love them, and help them reach their potential.

A Message to Mrs. Fred

To Mrs. Judy Frederick,

I don’t know where you are now, but I need you to know you changed my life. You carried me through one of the most challenging moments I’ve ever faced, and because of you, I found my purpose: to love and serve others.

I’ve spent 37 years walking the path you set me on. I’ve stood in my own classrooms, looked into the eyes of hurting children, and said, “I love you.”  Because of you, I know how much those words matter. I have trained others to care for the human being in front of them and to impact lives in a way that surpasses academic growth and achievement. I have expanded my horizons to serve in different industries, and the same principles you taught me flow through each opportunity to serve others. Work is love in action, something you instilled in me many years ago. 

You were the first person to believe in me when I couldn’t believe in myself. So, wherever you are—I love you, too.

Thank you.

With Love, Peace, and Prayers,

Dr. Alecia M. Gardner 

Ed.D., M.Ed., M.A.T., B.S.Ed.