THE VOICE OF THE TEACHER WHO REGAINED STRENGTH.
A story about how even after the longest winter, spring comes.
My name is Michał. I'm 42 years old. I've been teaching physical education for seventeen years. I always wanted to. I always loved it. But for a long time, I felt like I was stuck in a November I couldn't get out of.
Because everything was gray. The gray walls of my school. The gray hall, where the echo of my footsteps sounded like the memory of something long dead. The smell of dust mingled with damp, as if the building hadn't breathed in years. The gray gazes of the students, tired and indifferent. A gray system that not only failed to shine the light of hope but seemed to extinguish everything around it. And in me—a colorful boy with dreams—the light was beginning to fade.
THAT'S WHY I DECIDED TO BECOME A TEACHER.
I thought: "I will pass on to my children what saved me."
But already in college, I realized something was off. I was missing one thing that was key for me – strength. Not the kind that comes from weights – the kind that comes from within. That belief: "I can do it. I can do it. I am strong."
There was no gym. There was no specialization in "strength training for children and adolescents." There were no tools to build young people from the inside out. I remember sitting after classes with my head full of questions – don't they really see how much this is missing? Do we really think that young people only need team sports rules? When I tried to ask the professors about the place of strength training in a young person's development, they looked at me with slight surprise, as if I were tackling a topic off the academic map. There was plenty of theory, team sports, rules, techniques. But there was no heart. There was no courage to see that physical strength – built wisely and safely – could be the first step to mental strength.
Back to school. And there—time stood still. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and returned to the same school I grew up in. And with every step, I felt as if nothing had changed.
The same gymnastics box, with chipped paint and scuffs from hundreds of shoes. The same monkey bars, with the paint peeling in places and the screws rusting silently. The same dust on the medicine ball, which seemed never to have been wiped. The same hint of scent—like an old November that never ended, saturated with damp, sweat from years past, and a past sadness that never had a chance to evaporate.
And the children? Different. Quieter. Weaker. More cautious. Boys who couldn't pull themselves up. Girls who hid behind sick leave. Children with heavy backpacks and even heavier thoughts. Children who were afraid to move—because no one ever taught them they had the right to be strong.
I tried too. But what could I do without the sun? I brought tapes from home. I drew lesson plans on my knee. I turned balls into weights, looking for a substitute for the gym.
But I had no tools. I had no space. I had no system to support me.
Until one day I realized I was fading. Not because I'd lost my passion, but because I couldn't seem to find it anywhere.
And then – the wind came. Change came.
Someone suggested: "Let's build a school gym."
At first, I thought—dreams again. But then the project emerged. Then the decision. Then the delivery. And finally—spring.
I remember the day I first entered the new space. In one section, the girls' zone. Colors, graphics, multimedia. In the other, the boys' zone. Energy, challenges, power. In the center, light.
TYTAX machines – specifically designed for the needs of young people. An app shows how to exercise. On the screen – muscle animation. Music from the speakers. Joy on the children's faces.
And then I smiled too. For the first time in years.
The children began to blossom. I did too. There were no more breaks. The girls trained side by side with the boys. There was community. Effort. Pushing boundaries.
I remember Ania – previously pale as a December morning, quiet, always standing in the back, avoiding eye contact. During her first gym session, she approached the equipment with hesitation, touching it as if afraid it wasn't for her. But she came back again. And again. She trained regularly, step by step, without pressure – until one day, lifting a dumbbell, she looked in the mirror and saw for the first time not someone weak, but a woman with strength. She told me then: "Sir... for the first time in my life, I feel strong." After a month of training at the gym, she blossomed. She told me: "Sir... for the first time in my life, I feel strong."
Me too.
For the first time in years, I felt like I was a teacher, not a performer.
The school gym of your dreams – it's not just equipment. It's light. It's spring after a long winter. It's a response to helplessness. It's movement where there was stagnation. It's a smile where there was shame.
Today I know: it was worth the wait. It was worth not fading away.
To all physical education teachers: YOU ARE NOT ALONE.
The system has failed us. But now we have a voice. We have a space. We have a tool.
The school's dream gym isn't just a project. It's a light in the eyes of children. It's like a garden that for years lay in the shadows, uncultivated, forgotten. And now—thanks to care, the right conditions, and a little faith—it has blossomed with a thousand colors. Each exercise is like a new leaf, each weakness overcome like the first bud. And we, teachers, are the gardeners—we return daily to water hope and watch strength grow. Theirs and ours. And when it returns, we too return to life.