The Teacher I Wish I Could Have Been
And Am Becoming Anyway.
The deeper I explore myself,
the more I realise I yearn to be a teacher.
Not the kind who lectures from ‘up above’, looking down on those ‘below’.
Not the kind who hides behind fancy skills or impressive words.
But the kind of teacher who feels human.
The kind of teacher who admits he is afraid to make mistakes, who feels nervous showing up in class.
The kind of teacher you could cry in front of and who sheds his tears with you too.
The kind whose lessons don’t come from textbooks, or copying others, but from life—from living a life of truth, from exploring the felt experience.
Someone who embodies wisdom, slowly forged through years of getting beaten down by life, allowing these experiences to humble him deeply, until nothing else remains but the true essence of his being.
Someone who makes profound mistakes, and then asks for fogiveness and waits patiently to receive it, and then learns his lesson, with humility and respect, over and over again.
But I’ve carried this quiet grief around the idea of being a teacher.
Because the truth is…
I don’t really have students.
And how can you be a teacher if there’s no one who wants to learn from you?
The Grief of Not Feeling “Ready”
For a long time, I kept quiet about my longing to teach, even to myself.
I tucked it under layers of shame and self-doubt.
I was afraid to admit what I knew deep down to be true.
I told myself it was premature to take up space in that way.
That I wasn’t ready.
That I hadn’t earned it.
That I needed to be a finished product before I could even think about guiding someone else.
Because when I look at the teachers I’ve looked up to—the ones who lead communities or speak on podcasts or write bestselling books—
So many of them seem... finished.
They move with confidence. They seem clear, grounded, refined.
As if they’ve got everything figured out.
There seem to be no doubts. Just clear, honest, authentic leadership and truthful, assertive, direct expression.
They seem so courageous and unshaken by what people think of them. They simply stand for what they believe in, with an unwavering commitment to their own inner truth.
They don’t look like they’re still learning.
And because I didn’t look like them, I assumed I had nothing to offer.
I told myself:
“Who am I to teach if I still have so much to learn?”
“Who am I to guide others when I still get lost?”
“Who would want to listen to someone who’s still struggling?”
I felt like an imposter even dreaming about teaching.
But Still, The Longing Remained
Even as I doubt myself, as I am writing this, the pull never leaves.
The longing to share what I’ve learned feels too strong and important.
It’s as if I have no other choice but to come forth with this.
Because, quite frankly, I have never felt brave enough to seriously express this wish out loud.
And to admit publicly that I want to — but don’t have — students.
Because I feel that’s piteous, shameful and pathetic: To wish to have students, but to have none.
I judge myself for that.
I tell myself (with a sneering tone): “Look at you! You want to be a teacher, but you have no students, hah! You’re such a loser! What you have to share is worthless, because if it would be valuable and important, then you’d have plenty students wanting to learn from you. How pathetic you are!
But I no longer want to believe that viscous inner critic. I acknowledge it, I accept it, but I no longer want to believe it.
I feel like the time has finally arrived for me to truly show up, despite the fear and the shame.
I want to hold space for people the way I wished someone had held space for me.
I don’t want to perform perfection.
I want to show up in all my realness and say:
“Hey, I face my own challenges everyday too. And maybe we can walk through this together.”
The Teachers Who Taught Me Through Their Humanness
These past few months, I am realizing something that’s quietly changing everything:
The kind of teacher I most long to be is not the one who’s finished the journey, but the one who walks it openly.
The one who admits where they’re still learning.
The one who lets their uncertainty show.
The one who doesn’t pretend to be perfect—and in doing so, gives others permission to be real too.
I still struggle with an eating disorder for example.
That’s not something I say lightly.
For a long time, I believed that unless I fully healed—unless I was free from binge eating, free from the shame, the spirals—I had no right to speak.
But now… I see it differently.
The people who inspire me the most aren’t the ones who claim to be “healed.”
They’re the ones who’ve learned how to meet themselves tenderly in the middle of their mess.
Who’ve made a home inside the storm.
That’s what I want to offer.
Not a picture of arrival.
But a presence.
A companionship.
A map that says:
“I don’t know where the road ends, but here’s what I’ve seen along the way so far, and I want to share that with you, hoping it might offer you some courage to keep walking your own path.”
David Bedrick & Honest Mentorship
One of my recent most meaningful influences has been David Bedrick.
He’s spent over 30 years studying shame. He’s written books, developed healing modalities, taught hundreds of students around the world.
But what moves me most about him isn’t his knowledge—it’s his honesty.
He still has moments of self-doubt before giving a talk.
He still wrestles with his inner critic.
He shares openly about his own heartbreaks and insecurities.
And somehow, that makes his teaching even more trustworthy.
Because when someone stops pretending, it frees something in you too.
That’s the kind of teacher I want to be.
Not someone who hides their humanness to appear worthy of your trust—
But someone who earns it through presence, honesty, and vulnerability.
The Pain of Idealizing Perfection
I’ve met some of the teachers I once idolized.
From a distance, they seemed superhuman—flawless, enlightened, somehow above the messiness of life.
But up close, I saw their cracks.
Their egos. Their contradictions. Their wounds.
And I wasn’t disappointed by their humanness—
I was disappointed that they had pretended not to be human at all.
I don’t want to create that illusion for anyone.
I don’t want to be admired from afar and then discredited the moment someone gets close enough to see that I don’t have it all together.
I want to be seen, as I am.
Fully. In all my self-doubts and fears. In all my truth.
And still be of service.
What If We Started Now?
So I’m stepping into something new.
I’m letting myself be a teacher now.
Not when I’m more polished.
Not when I’ve overcome every struggle.
Not when I feel “legit.”
But now.
As I am.
And maybe… you’re someone who longs to share your voice too.
Maybe you’re waiting until you’re more “ready.”
Until your wounds are less visible, your doubts quieter, your life tidier.
If that’s true—this is for you too.
Because there’s something powerful that happens when we give ourselves permission to offer what we do have, from the place we’re actually standing.
Not the place we hope to be.
Not the place we’re pretending to be.
But right here.
Now.
Imperfect. In process. Still full of something worth sharing.
An Invitation
So here I am.
Writing this post on this Substack, today.
Not to present myself as an expert.
But to begin showing up with my whole heart.
To speak honestly about what I’m living and learning.
To teach, maybe—
But mostly to connect.
To offer companionship on the path.
To say, in all the ways I know how:
“You’re not alone.”
If anything I share here helps you feel a little less ashamed,
A little more seen,
A little more free to live and love from where you are—
Then this will have been worth it.
Thank you for being here.
You’re part of this unfolding.
And whether you read every post or just one—
You are my teacher too.
I’d love us to keep learning together.
With love,
Wolf