It would be years before I truly understood the meaning of the words my high school teacher, Mrs. Cartwright, told me. In that time, many aspects of my life would intersect, connected by a common thread through a bold statement.

She stood in the corner, her hands animated with energy and life against the off-white brick walls of the classroom. Some students followed along; others chatted among themselves. I was sketching in my notebook, as I normally did, occasionally looking up. In that moment, she looked to the ceiling, and with one gesture and one statement, she had my full attention.

Her class was exciting. She inspired us to write, to stand up, and to share our thoughts. One morning, we were surprised to find reporters, a camera crew, a photographer, and former students filling our classroom. Mrs. Cartwright had just been awarded a Milken Educator Award for Teaching Excellence, known as the “Oscars of Teaching.” We heard stories of the lives she had impacted, and many of us were given the chance to tell our own.

“If my students discover the limitlessness of their own minds, if they recognize the power they have in their own language, if they learn to use that power to communicate and to grow, I have done my job,” she said. But then she added, “I am only the beginning, the catalyst to their discovery of their abilities, and knowledge, and pride, as they walk on to their tomorrows… to make a difference.”

I’m not sure if others listened the way I did. She spoke the truth. I learned that action drives impact, and leadership drives inspiration. That your voice, your words, your writing—have power and meaning. I heard every word she spoke. I took notes. I engaged. I interacted with the group.

But I wasn’t looking. I didn’t see what was happening right in front of me.

Mrs. Cartwright was dying. She was trying to fill us with all her knowledge and wisdom. We wouldn’t find out until a few weeks after graduation. That’s when we learned she had passed away. Many students showed up that summer to pay their final respects.

I don’t know if I ever thanked her. Teachers may never hear it from their students. I hoped I made her proud. I hoped I was a good student. I hoped she knew that I was listening.

I will never forget the four words she told me, four words that would change my life:

“Get published, live forever.”