Being part of raising the next generation of Muslims is both a profound blessing and a responsibility unlike any other. Teaching, especially in the early years, cannot simply be seen as a “job.” It is a trust.
Young children do not separate who they are at school from who they are at home. They arrive with their whole selves, their curiosity, their joy, their struggles, and emotions that sometimes feel far too big for their tiny bodies. In the classroom, teachers often step into a role that goes beyond instruction, gently guiding, nurturing, and helping children make sense of the world around them.
This is something Sr. Rukshana, our preschool teacher at Al-Huda School, witnesses every single day. With patience and compassion, she meets children where they are, embracing both their light-filled moments and their challenging ones.
Below is a heartfelt note from Sr. Rukshana, offering a glimpse into what a “typical” day in her classroom truly looks like–one filled with growth, care, and countless quiet lessons for both teacher and student alike.
My day begins after Fajr. Even before I arrive at school, my mind is already planning—what needs to be done, what challenges may arise, and which path to take if the first plan doesn’t work.
When I step into the classroom, a few children are already there, and the room slowly comes to life. Tiny chairs are straightened. Crayons are counted. The calm corner is fluffed and prepared, because someone will need it today, because someone always does.
My co-teacher and I greet each child with a warm smile and a gentle, “Assalamu Alaikum,” as we bend down to meet them at their level. Some children run in happily. Some cling to their parent’s leg. One may cry. Another may refuse to hang up their backpack. In those moments, I comfort, redirect, and reassure, sometimes all at once.
Morning circle begins.
Three-year-olds wiggle and sway. Little feet kick. One child sings loudly while another hides behind the teacher’s back. When a small voice shouts, “No!” to sitting down, I take a deep breath and remind myself: they are still learning how to be in the world.
We continue, celebrating small victories, like the child who sits ten seconds longer than yesterday. Every supposedly small thing is a big win in a 3-year-old’s classroom.
Snack time follows.
A cup spills. A banana breaks and brings tears. A cracker is suddenly the “wrong shape.” We clean, comfort, explain, and gently repeat, “We use gentle hands.”
Then comes Arabic circle time. The same lively energy fills the room. Some children recite Qur’an with confidence. Others need help staying seated. Some wiggle endlessly. Still, we know each moment is planting seeds of knowledge.
During centers, the classroom hums with activity.
One child builds tall towers. Another knocks them down. Two friends reach for the same truck. Big feelings appear in small bodies, and sometimes a toy is thrown in frustration. I step in calmly, keeping everyone safe, naming emotions, and modeling words the child does not yet have.
I move constantly, kneeling, standing, guiding, redirecting, and offering hugs when they are needed most.
Outdoor play brings fresh air and freedom. Children run, laugh, and sometimes fall. We tie shoes, wipe tears, cheer from the sidelines, and watch closely. We are always watching.
Lunch is loud and full of choices.
One child refuse to eat. Another finishes everything and asks for more. Someone wants to talk instead of chew. We sit nearby, encouraging, praising, and gently reminding.
Nap time is quiet. But, do not be mistaken, it is not truly restful for teachers.
We rub backs and hum softly. One child drifts off right away. Another cries for home. Another needs reassurance again and again. We whisper comfort as our own bodies finally slow for a moment.
At 3:00 p.m., the classroom stirs again as dismissal begins. Some children leave to join their siblings in higher grades.
The afternoon brings stories, activities, and very tired little bodies.
Magnet tiles fall. Paper tears. Emotions rise close to the surface. A small disappointment feels very big to a three-year-old. My co-teacher and I remain calm, even when we feel tired ourselves.
At pickup time, parents arrive.
We greet them with smiles and share a sweet moment from the day. We discuss concerns carefully, choosing words that are honest and kind. We reassure families, even when our hearts feel heavy for a child who is struggling.
At the end of the day, I reflect, on what worked, what didn’t, and what tomorrow might bring. I wonder if I chose the right words in a hard moment. I hope each child felt safe, valued, and loved.
Tomorrow, I will return, Insha Allah.
I will greet each child with patience, teach skills that take years to grow, and hold space for emotions bigger than little bodies can carry.
Because being a three-year-old teacher is not just a job.
It is holding calm in the middle of chaos.
It is teaching without expecting perfection.
It is loving children through their hardest moments,
And most importantly, showing up again the next day, Insha Allah.
Because sometimes, the best gift you can give a child is to show up, and be present as they explore the wide world out there, and the one within them.
