Before I Was Dr. Taylor, I Was Mr. Taylor: How Teaching Shaped my Mission

Wearing a birthday crown gifted by my friend Sara, the school librarian—because even in the chaos, we found reasons to smile.

Before I was Dr. Taylor, I was Mr. Taylor. And before that, I was just Curtis—a young man with a shelf full of wrestling figures, a head full of questions, and a heart that already knew: I wanted to help people grow. This is how teaching shaped my mission

My first real job wasn’t glamorous. I was a long-term substitute teacher at a small Christian school, thrown into the deep end halfway through the year. I had to teach five different social studies classes for grades 7 through 12—plus a Bible class. No prep period. No mentor. No map. Just me, a stack of textbooks, and a lot of trial and error.

It was a far cry from student teaching, where I’d had the rhythm down: one course, four sections, plus a relaxed elective to end the day. But here, every period was a gear shift. One moment I was unpacking the Roman Empire for 7th graders. The next, I was trying to keep a roomful of seniors awake during U.S. Government.

Later, I spent time subbing in local public districts. I enjoyed the variety—new buildings, new students, and the occasional moment that felt like real impact. But none of it led to a permanent role. I was still a guest in someone else’s classroom.

Eventually, I was hired by an independent faith-based academy. Once again, I found myself juggling multiple course preps and leading the combined 7th and 8th grade classes—multiple times a day.

And not just in social studies.

Yes, I taught two social studies classes a day. But also English. Math. And Bible. And did I mention Bible? Because yes—I taught that too.

If you assigned point values to teacher workloads, I was easily twice as busy as most of my colleagues. And somehow, even busier than that.

Here’s how my schedule worked: While I taught both 7th and 8th grade simultaneously, other teachers rotated with just one grade at a time. When one taught 6th grade, the other had a prep period. That cycle repeated throughout the day.

Meanwhile, I was the entire middle school faculty wrapped into one very tired human—with a drawer full of Expo markers and a prayer.

But even in the chaos, I kept coming back to the core of what I believed teaching was really about:

1. First: Help students become people of character. 2. Second: Develop their communication skills—reading, writing, listening, and speaking. 3. Third: Teach the content—yes, even the math.

That was always the order in my mind. It still is.

But at the time, I had to tuck that vision behind the pacing guide. There were quizzes to write. Worksheets to copy. Eight different classes to prep, many with no curriculum at all.

It didn’t matter how much I believed students needed tools to navigate their inner world—that wasn’t on the midterm. It didn’t matter how many were silently struggling with anxiety, conflict, or identity—our next unit was the Cold War. Or a grammar worksheet. Or the Sermon on the Mount.

So I did what I could.

I jumped on desks. I wore costumes. I made ridiculous analogies. I brought my full self to the classroom and gave kids a reason to lean in. I cracked jokes about Congress while standing on a table. I explained the Drama Triangle like it was a wrestling match.

And after class, some of them stayed.

Those were the moments I lived for. Not for extra credit. Not for makeup work. They stayed because something was bothering them. And they wanted to talk—not as students to a teacher, but as one human to another.

They’d say things like:

“I don’t know who I am anymore.” “Why does my mom act like that?” “Why do I keep messing things up with people?”

Those weren’t academic questions. They were human questions.

And I knew those were the real lessons they came for. Even if we never wrote them on the board.

Those after-class conversations weren’t in the curriculum. But they were the core of my calling.

Because when a teenager trusts you enough to crack open their real life—the fear, the pain, the pressure—they’re not asking for a quiz. They’re asking for a guide.

And that’s who I wanted to be.

So I listened. I affirmed. I challenged. I tried to speak life into young people who didn’t yet believe their story was worth telling. I saw their pain not as a problem to fix—but as a place to begin.

And without realizing it, I was already doing the work I do now.

Back then, I didn’t know the language of trauma-informed care or ego states or polyvagal theory. But I did know what it felt like to be broken. I did know what it meant to want more from life. And I did know how to look someone in the eyes and say:

“You matter. And this isn’t the end of your story.”

Eventually, I left the classroom. But I never left the mission.

Today, as Dr. Taylor, I sit across from people in a counseling room—or speak to groups, or write, or build new systems—and the heart of the work is the same.

It’s still about character, communication, and connection. It’s still about helping people make sense of their inner world so they can show up with more clarity, courage, and compassion in the outer one.

Authentic Wellness & Empowerment was born from that same vision. A belief that real healing doesn’t happen when we just focus on surface-level success. It happens when we address what’s going on underneath.

When we build safe spaces for people to wrestle with their stories. To ask better questions. To find their way back to themselves.

That’s why I don’t just teach “wellness.” I teach what I was always teaching:

How to stop living on autopilot and start living with intention. How to rewrite the messages you’ve internalized. How to carry what you’ve been through—without collapsing under it.

So yes—before I was Dr. Taylor, I was Mr. Taylor.

And before that?

Just a curious kid who believed people could grow.

I still believe it. And now, I’ve built an entire movement around it.

Welcome to AWE. Let’s keep learning—together.