Emily Henderson

The Question That Started It All

When I first walked into a Cohort 21 session and was asked to articulate my “How Might We” question, I didn’t hesitate: “How might we maintain a diverse range of texts—both in authorship and themes—to ensure that students feel represented in their education, creating more safe, accepting, and empathic spaces to learn and grow?”

This question didn’t emerge from abstract idealism. It came from seven years of teaching experience, countless conversations with students who didn’t see themselves in the literature we assigned, and a deep conviction that curriculum choices are never neutral. They are statements about who we value, whose stories matter, and who belongs in our classrooms. After spending six confident years at my previous school, I moved to a new school this year—and suddenly felt like a first-year teacher again, uncertain about norms and unsure how to advocate for my values in an unfamiliar community. My HMW question became my anchor.

Where the Rubber Met the Road

The first real test came early. My co-teacher and I needed to finalize our Grade 10 curriculum, and I advocated strongly for keeping The Laramie Project—a play that explores the 1998 murder of Matthew Shepard and asks students to grapple with LGBTQ+ representation, community responsibility, and justice. My co-teacher was hesitant. But I stood firm. I believed then—and I believe now—that this text does irreplaceable work in creating empathy and safety for our students.

Then something happened that made this abstract commitment deeply, heartbreakingly real. A student approached me privately and shared something deeply personal: they were navigating their own identity and transition, and they needed to know if this classroom was a safe place for them. They needed to know if I would be an ally.

In that moment, every decision I’d made about representation and curriculum choice crystallized into a single, clear purpose: this matters because students are watching, listening, and deciding whether they belong.

The Lessons I’ll Carry Forward

This year has taught me three things I won’t forget.

First, classrooms have significant long-term effects on students. We often get caught up in whether students master a particular skill or concept by June. But the real work of teaching is subtler and deeper: we shape whether students see themselves as worthy of being heard, whether they develop empathy for people different from themselves, whether they believe their identity is safe to explore. These effects ripple far beyond the academic year.

Second, advocacy matters—and it requires courage. It would have been easier to defer to my co-teacher’s concerns. It would have been easier to keep the curriculum comfortable and conventional. But I’ve learned that being a good educator sometimes means having difficult conversations and standing behind what you believe is best for students. Not stubbornly, but thoughtfully, with evidence and heart.

Third, representation creates belonging in ways that nothing else can. When students see characters who share their identity, their struggles, their joy—they are being told that their stories are worthy of literary attention. They are being included. And for some students, particularly those from marginalized communities, that inclusion is transformative.

Resources That Shaped My Thinking

My learning this year has been supported by powerful resources I’ve explored with my students:

• Small Town Pride (CBC Gem documentary)—which offers nuanced storytelling about LGBTQ+ experiences in rural communities
• YouTube videos exploring identity, belonging, and self-discovery
• Research into Gender-Sexuality Alliances (GSAs) and how they create safe spaces in schools

These resources, combined with student conversations, have deepened my understanding of why representation isn’t a luxury—it’s essential.

The Big Takeaway

If I’m honest, this realization terrifies me a little: Teaching is about shaping who students become, not just what they know. We are in the business of human development. The books we choose, the conversations we facilitate, the identities we make visible or invisible—these are not peripheral details. They are the core of what we do.

And there is nothing—nothing—more important than the long-term impact we have on our students.

The Questions That Keep Me Up at Night

Even as I feel clearer about my values and commitments, I’m sitting with new questions:

• What other texts have the transformative power of The Laramie Project? How do I build a curriculum that consistently offers representation across identity categories?
• Will a more conservative school community be open to a Gender-Sexuality Alliance? How do I advocate for this kind of safe space in a climate where I’m still establishing myself?
• How do I honor different viewpoints while holding firm to my conviction that representation and safety are non-negotiable?

These aren’t questions I expect to solve this year. But living in them—rather than dismissing them—feels like the honest work of a teacher committed to growth.

Cohort 21: Meeting Me Where I Was

I need to pause and acknowledge something: this journey would have felt much lonelier without Cohort 21.

Switching schools after six confident years was disorienting. Suddenly I was uncertain about what was normal, what was possible, what I could push for. I felt like I’d lost my expertise. But within Cohort 21, I found a community of educators in similar transitions—wrestling with similar questions, taking similar risks, supporting one another. The cohort didn’t tell me what to do. Instead, it met me where I was: uncertain but hopeful, new to this context but clear about my values. It gave me permission to ask, “How might we?” and to believe that the answer matters.

That sense of community, of being understood by people walking similar paths, has been invaluable.

Looking Forward

As I close this chapter of my Cohort 21 journey, I’m carrying a clearer sense of who I am as a teacher. I am someone who believes that curriculum is never neutral, that representation saves lives, and that advocacy for students is part of my job description. I am someone willing to have difficult conversations and to stand behind what I believe, even when I’m new and uncertain.

I don’t know yet if I’ll successfully establish a GSA at my school. I don’t know if my more conservative community will embrace all of the texts I hope to teach. But I know this: I will keep asking “How might we?” I will keep choosing literature that tells the stories of students who have been historically silenced. I will keep showing up for students who are figuring out who they are. And I will keep building the kind of classroom where every student—regardless of their identity, background, or story—knows they belong.

That’s the teacher I’m becoming. And Cohort 21 helped me see it.