From Curiosity to Curriculum: What Happened to My Teaching Dream?

A teacher is one whose talk is “teacher” among the talks. — Anonymous

Why did I choose teaching?
When I was young, even after graduating in engineering, the profession that repeatedly came to my mind was teaching. There was no second thought. I wanted to become a narrator, a storyteller and an inspirer—someone who could capture the attention of young students and stimulate their minds. During my teaching experience, pleasure and motivation remained the two factors I valued most.

My inspiration came from my own teachers and mentors. They awakened a curiosity and thirst for knowledge that could never be completely satisfied. With gratitude, I see myself as a reflection of those teachers. Even today, I feel like a child standing before their knowledge and expertise.

I once asked a schoolteacher, who was about to retire, about the word “stack”. What followed became a defining moment for me. For almost forty minutes, he explained its origin, meaning, usage and narrative context as if he were showing me a film. When the bell finally rang, he stopped. That was my fan moment. I decided that I wanted to become a teacher.

My motto was simple: change the world, even if only by influencing a few young and distracted minds. That was the motivation with which I joined a college as a lecturer.

When do expectations meet reality?
I entered the classroom ready to deliver everything I had: books, knowledge, data, information and experience. I introduced myself as a graduate engineer and a writer who loved Urdu literature and had read nearly 500 books. Some students were amazed; others probably wondered, “What kind of narcissist is this?”

I responded by changing the classroom itself. I asked every student to introduce themselves so I could understand the people sitting before me. I introduced a simple rule: every day, students could bring one question that genuinely intrigued them. The student who brought the toughest and most thought-provoking question could be exempted from the next quiz.

The objective was not merely to complete a syllabus. It was to create a culture of thinking.

It worked—until the deadlines arrived.

The pressure of syllabus completion, quizzes, assignments and examinations gradually collided with my teaching methods. Administrative restrictions narrowed what had once been an open classroom. Once-a-week activities became once every fifteen days, then once a month, until I found myself caught between the teacher I wanted to be and the administrator I was expected to satisfy.

Was the problem the students, the institution—or the system itself?

I do not blame an individual institution or person. The paradox is systemic. The curriculum may be adequate and the time may be sufficient, yet the obsession with numbers changes the purpose of education. A few high-performing students become the visible success stories, while the rest are often expected simply to move with the flow.

That is where passion begins to fade.
How was it to experience Gen Z classrooms?

Every student has a different universe, and a teacher cannot live in all those universes simultaneously—unless there is a multiverse.

The students I encountered were expressive, more willing to say what they thought, relatively open to new ideas and prepared to change their position when confronted with convincing logic. They were also selective. If a student disliked mathematics, physics or computers, forcing the subject upon them rarely produced genuine engagement.

But there were challenges too. They disliked lengthy processes and preferred shortcuts. They were fast-paced and often wanted immediate results. Sometimes the learning journey itself seemed less important than reaching the final destination.

What changed between the early 2000s and the post-2015 classroom?

Before the internet became the dominant source of information, the primary channels of knowledge were the teacher and the book. Students had fewer facilities, but perhaps greater patience. Classrooms were not always air-conditioned; sometimes students studied beneath trees or in open spaces. Yet scarcity often created resistance, patience and determination.

Today we can provide air-conditioned classrooms, modern laboratories, CCTV surveillance and structured syllabi. But are we giving students enough resilience, patience and determination to rise after failure?

Perhaps the deeper problem lies in a system obsessed with numbers, institutional competition, unequal incentives and labels of “the best”.

Why did I quit after five years of struggle?

Every year I entered the classroom with renewed enthusiasm, passion, care and curiosity. But somewhere along the way, passion became a hobby, the hobby became a habit, and the habit became a daily routine.

The most painful moment came when I realised I was no longer living according to my own values. A student would ask a question, I would deliver the lecture, and then simply think: “Okay, that’s done.”

That was the warning.
I wanted to resign—not because I had stopped loving teaching, but because I had stopped recognising myself as the teacher I once wanted to become.

Does an honest teacher lose when the system rewards conformity over curiosity?

Perhaps.
As the saying goes, a corrupt system can defeat an honest individual. I did not leave the classroom because I hated teaching. I left because I could no longer reconcile my passion with a fragile system that increasingly treated education as a numbers game.

I still miss that classroom.
Not because I had no reason to leave, but because I had every reason to stay—and the system gave me too few reasons to continue.

Perhaps teaching was never my failed profession. Perhaps it was my unfinished passion.

And perhaps writing is simply the classroom I found after leaving the classroom.