Unlikely Teachers

Why the best teachers aren’t always in classrooms—or even trying to teach.

When we talk about learning, our minds often default to formal education—classrooms, books, experts with credentials. But as we continue our exploration of humility this May, I’ve been reflecting on how true learning requires us to recognize that wisdom can come from anywhere—especially the places we least expect.

The dedication in my book Soul Audit reads: “To Ruthie—who took my chair and changed what I saw.” She wasn’t a guru. She wasn’t a best-selling author or tenured professor. Ruthie was one of my clients—sharp-tongued, guarded, and unflinchingly honest. And without knowing it, she became one of the most impactful teachers I’ve ever had.

She never cried. She joked. She jabbed. She turned pain into punchlines because that was how she stayed in control. Ruthie had lost several fingers before I met her. It was something she rarely talked about directly—but it was always there. Part metaphor. Part reminder.

Trust didn’t come easy to her. Vulnerability wasn’t her language. Early on, she’d steal my chair just to watch me react. She challenged every question like it came with strings attached. But she kept showing up. And that—week after week—was its own kind of honesty.

Then one day, mid-sentence, something shifted. Her jaw unclenched. Her eyes welled up. And she let herself feel it: not a breakdown, not a performance—just a slow, silent grief that took over her whole posture. It was the kind of moment that teaches you everything and explains nothing all at once.

That’s what I mean by unexpected teachers.

Humility in learning isn’t just about being open-minded. It’s about recognizing that wisdom doesn’t always wear a name tag or come with a degree. Sometimes the person in pain teaches us more than the person in charge. Sometimes the body that aches is the one holding the insight.

We often dismiss what doesn’t look or sound like what we’ve been taught to value. But sometimes the migraine that shows up after the stressful event, not during, is the body’s way of saying: “It’s safe now to let go.” Sometimes the stomachache isn’t just something you ate—it’s your body voting no when your brain is trying to say yes.

That’s something Ruthie taught me too. That the body carries truth long after the mind has moved on. That symptoms aren’t always problems to be fixed—they can be messages waiting to be heard.

As I wrote in Soul Audit, “Your body isn’t betraying you; it’s trying to protect you.” But how often do we treat our physical responses like interruptions instead of intelligence?

This week, maybe consider who or what you’ve been ignoring. What voice keeps getting tuned out because it doesn’t sound “qualified”? What part of your own body have you silenced because it’s inconvenient to listen?

Learning requires vulnerability—the courage to admit we don’t know everything and the humility to receive wisdom wherever it appears.

That’s what Ruthie taught me. She took my chair. And in doing so, she changed what I saw.

Check out AYearofHumility.net for more.