by Mary Powell

When I was between four and six years old, I suffered from a rare psychological condition called selective mutism. You can talk — technically — but in certain situations a child simply cannot speak. I have my own theories about why it happened to me. I continue to wonder if it was tied to earlier traumatic incidents. But regardless of the reasons, I just couldn’t talk; I literally couldn’t do it.

For me, that silence was almost always at school. It was a horrible, agonizing time, and the people around me did not handle it well. This was particularly true of the teachers at my public school, who handled it terribly. My first grade public school teacher was abusive, openly calling me “stupid.”

Yet, right before entering that awful first grade year, my parents had sent me to a one-day children’s religious camp. The flashback I carry from that single day is of being in a classroom with two other students and the woman leading it. Up until that point, my early memories felt like a dark, shadowy picture. But in that classroom, for the very first time in my life, I saw sunlight. I can literally still see the light when I think of it. Though I had been unable to speak anywhere else, in this memory, I see myself actually talking. More than that, I was accepted and liked by a little girl.

The teacher was talking about snow when this little girl looked at me, smiled like I was finally good enough, and said excitedly, “We can build a snowman!” I couldn’t believe it. I felt a little shy, but it was the very first time I felt happy among peers. I don’t know what that camp leader did, but she did something special, and I never forgot it.

Then came that grueling first grade at public school with my abusive teacher. Toward the end of the year, I was sitting quietly in the living room with my mother. Out of nowhere, she looked at me and asked, “Mary, do you want to transfer to the Catholic school? Mrs. Murphy teaches second grade. Remember you had that day?”

With a confidence and certainty I don’t think I had ever felt before, I answered, “Yes.”

I was so profoundly relieved that for the rest of that academic year, whenever my public school teacher bullied me, it simply didn’t touch me. It was like, “Whatever, lady. I’m leaving you.”

I was no longer miserable because I knew salvation was coming. Transferring from public school to my very first Catholic school — and landing in the care of my very first Catholic teacher — saved me. I couldn’t wait.

My next memory is of sitting with Mrs. Murphy during an assessment, reading a book. I wasn’t happy yet; I just remember moving through the words like a zombie. Then she looked at me and said, “Very good, Mary,” followed by words that altered everything: “Did you know that you have just read out of a third grade book?”

I was still in the first grade. To hear that was utterly staggering. I lifted my head, looked around, and thought, “Wow, I’m smart!”

It wasn’t like the empty praise other adults had offered — “Mary, you’re so smart! You’re so artistic! You’re so talented!” No, this was entirely different. This teacher gave me a concrete detail, a factual truth: “You just read out of a third grade book.” From that, I was able to draw my own conclusion.

We left, and in the car ride home, I just stared back at the building. I couldn’t believe it, and I was flooded with an overwhelming sense of hope. As the rest of that first grade year wound down, whenever the bullying started, I just thought, “Yeah, whatever, lady. I’m out of here to a very good thing in my life. For once.”

All through the next year, Mrs. Murphy taught religion and Christianity in a deeply good, child-oriented way. That year, the second graders were receiving their first Communion, and she made it magical. She built a homemade altar right in the classroom, and somehow she had a Communion ciborium filled with wafers. She would turn on Christian music for kids, and I was overflowing with joy when she would ask us to sing.

I actually learned in her class, too. The Phoenix reading book she gave us was incredible, and I was constantly writing the right answers, thrilled out of my mind. Even during subjects I was terrible at, like math, the entire room would erupt into a chorus of waving hands and wild “Ooo! Ooo! Ooo!” shouts of excitement.

There were so many wonderful things about her. She gave us an incredible children’s Bible all about Jesus and His story, and I loved every page.

Looking back, I feel she saved my life. She made me genuinely happy. The rest of my elementary school years ahead were going to be a nightmare of bullying and dreadful teaching driven by schools that only knew how to teach “for the test.” But Mrs. Murphy planted a permanent light inside me, and I fell in love with learning about Jesus.

This woman, my very first Catholic teacher in my very first Catholic school, saved my life.

My selective mutism simply vanished. In fact, on the very first morning of our second grade year, as I was walking toward the building, she was standing there and called out, “Hi, Mary. How are you?”

And very loudly and confidently, I answered, “Good!”

My selective mutism was gone. She had cured me. Not a therapist — a teacher. Leaving public school behind for her classroom was the turning point of my entire childhood. It is entirely unbelievable.

I thank God for her. She brought me true Christianity; she saved me, and I love her for it.

Mary Powell, PhD, LCSW, NCPsyA, is a psychotherapist and professor at Fordham University.