Fifth grade was supposed to be like any other year, but for me, it wasn't. I had just moved. What I would be met with that year I never could've imagined. Mr. Ogg was everything you could ask for in a teacher. He looked at every kid like he cared about them, and he did. I had selective mutism and depression, meaning I didn't say much, ever. But Mr. Ogg constantly interacted with me as if I was anyone else. He made me feel like I was human and worthy of more than a label. He taught me how to live with a passion, which for me, became writing. He told me my tear-stained homework was good enough after I spent nights crying over it and the emptiness of my heart. When I was desperate for validation, Mr. Ogg gave it to me.

When I was bleeding inside he said the things I needed to hear. At the time, I was having fairly dark thoughts, and Mr. Ogg was one of many wonderful people and family, however, the only educator, that kept me fighting. Slowly but surely, I developed a love for writing that year. I wrote on weekends and any spare time I had. I missed him more than words can say when I went to middle school the next year. I'd never got to tell him what he'd done for me which was the hardest part of it all. I thought about him every day that entire year and the first part of the next. However, life went on and at times I wish it hadn't. Midway through seventh grade, I started experiencing symptoms of bipolar. It was three months before I was hospitalized and six months before I was diagnosed. Through it all, and I mean this, writing saved my life. Every day, I spent in the hospital I spent writing, crying over the paper as I had so many years ago. That's when I realized one person I hadn't yet thought of, who saved my life. I wanted some way to thank him for what he had done. I wanted him to know what he'd done for me because had I not had my passion for writing, one of my reasons to live, I'm not sure I'd be here today. However, I am, and I'm here to say that Mr. Ogg is more than an educator. He is someone I aspire to be like, and a lifesaver with an inhuman capacity to care. I figured this way, he may know. this way, I may just be able to thank him for my ability to laugh, cry, and smile. Maybe I could thank him for my ability to breathe. Maybe I'd begin to return what he gifted me, in my darkest night. Nothing I say will ever do justice to Mr. Ogg, but I'll never forget him. After all, if you can't repay the person that saved your life, you'll certainly forget them.