ABOUT - ANGIERAIN

You know, there’s a moment in every teacher’s life when you know—this is why I do this.

It’s not when they hand you the certificate. It’s not when the principal says, “Well done, you’re doing great.”

It’s when you look at a child, and you realize—I saved them. Or maybe better—I helped them save themselves.

But before I tell you how two noisy, distracted orphans changed my life forever, let me take you back to a kitchen table—where my mother, in her quiet bravery, asked her sister to teach us the one thing she never had the chance to learn.

I was just a girl then—elbows on the table, chin in my hands, pretending not to listen.

My mother had never been to university. She was full of fire and grit, but the world had closed certain doors on her. My aunt, on the other hand, was everything the world applauded—educated, articulate, respected. A teacher.

I was raised in a traditional Malaysian Chinese household, where reverence for family, humility, and quiet resilience were everything. We weren’t wealthy, but we were rich in love—and in unspoken expectations.

I remember watching my mum asking her sister for help—not to raise us, but to teach us. English. Maths. The things she couldn’t give, but desperately wanted us to have.

And that’s when it happened. That tiny shift. That quiet vow.
I will be both.

Brave like my mother. Wise like my aunt.

I didn’t know it yet, but my calling was already whispering to me.

After my SPM exams, while waiting for my results, I was offered a temporary teaching job.

Just a few weeks, they said. A replacement. Nothing serious.
But something happened. What started as a filler job slowly became my world. After a few months, they made me a Form Teacher.

Suddenly, I was collecting school fees, organizing class events, filling in reports—and still just a teenager myself.

It was overwhelming. I had no training, no manual, no real clue.

But I had one thing that mattered more than anything: connection.

I didn’t stand at the front with a pointer stick. I sat among them. I joked with them. I told them stories. I learned their names, their favorite colors, their moods, their silences. I listened.
And they listened back.

Other teachers began saying, “They actually behave in your class.”

But it wasn’t about discipline. It was about trust.

That’s when I realized: this is not just something I can do—this is something I was born to do.

Later, as a university student, I did something bold.

I walked into the newspaper office, placed my own ad in the classifieds:
“English Tutor Available.”

No backup plan. No referrals. Just me, my courage, and a belief that someone out there needed what I had to give.

That tiny, ink-smudged ad brought my first private students. It was the moment I stepped into the world—not just as someone who teaches, but someone who creates her own path.

But even that didn’t prepare me for what came next.

Two students joined my class mid-term. A boy and a girl. Orphans.
They weren’t quiet. They weren’t withdrawn.

They were loud, constantly talking, cracking jokes, distracting others—every teacher’s nightmare.

But I saw through it.

They weren’t misbehaving because they didn’t care.
They were misbehaving because they didn’t believe.
Didn’t believe they were worth the effort.
Didn’t believe school mattered.
Didn’t believe they mattered.

They had learned early in life that they were alone. Forgotten. Unseen.

And I made a promise to myself that day: I will not let these two disappear.

At first, I tried the usual things—calming them down, redirecting them, pulling them aside for warnings. Nothing worked. And that’s when I stopped teaching and started reaching.

I invited them into my stories. I found the spark in their eyes. I made jokes. I stayed patient.

One day after class, I said to them gently, “You don’t have to be perfect. Just listen to me. Try. If you stay with me, you’ll improve. I promise you.”

I don’t know what landed, but something shifted. Days turned into weeks. They started showing up—not just physically, but emotionally.

The boy began answering questions. The girl raised her hand for the first time.

And one afternoon, while walking home, I broke down crying.
Because I knew.

This wasn’t just a job. This wasn’t just a talent. This was my purpose.

To reach the ones who think they don’t belong.
To dig for their strengths. To hit their hearts.

To make them believe the one thing that changes everything:
You are enough.

Today, I mentor children aged 5 to 12. I teach English, yes—but what I really do is to help them discover their courage, confidence and belief.

Every child that enters my classroom has a story they’re not yet ready to tell.

And I don’t ask them to tell it right away.
I meet them where they are. I became their friend.
And then, slowly, we write the next chapter together.

Because someone once sat across from a kitchen table and asked for help she never received.
Because someone once placed her faith in me before I even knew what I could do.
Because two orphans reminded me that love is louder than pain.

Beyond the classroom, I’ve raised three incredible children of my own—now thriving young adults. Watching them grow into confident, kind, and capable human beings has been the most profound proof that love, presence, and belief can shape a life.

They are not just my joy—they are my legacy.

I’m not just here to teach —
I’m here to remind every child that even in a noisy, messy world, they matter deeply, and they always have.