4: Off Topic
How red ink shut down my voice – and how I reclaimed it through writing. A story for anyone who was told they were wrong for thinking differently
— Jutta
A story about school trauma, judgment – and why I write anyway.
When red ink hurts more than it should
This story starts in a classroom.
It’s about German class, essays, and red correction marks.
About grades that hit deep, even if meant objectively.
About what writing sounds like when you're trying to get everything “right” –
and what it sounds like when you finally stop trying.
When you write for yourself. Without judgment.
I just wanted to write – and got it all wrong
I don’t remember the essay topic.
But I remember the feeling.
I was completely immersed. My head was buzzing with excitement.
I had an idea, an image, a rhythm. I was in the zone.
Writing felt like freedom. Not a task – a calling.
It was mine. And when I was done, I felt radiant.
Then came the feedback.
Red ink. One line.
“Off topic.”
It hit me like a punch. Cold. Dismissive.
I had tried. I had cared.
I thought enthusiasm would count for something.
I thought someone would notice I was thinking deeply.
But apparently, that’s not what school rewards.
It wants answers, not questions.
Structure, not deviation.
Function, not feeling.
That’s when I slowly learned:
What I write, and how I write, is never enough.
Not for school. Not for teachers. Not for society.
And eventually, not even for myself.
The judgment wasn’t academic – it was personal
They told us: “Learn to take criticism.”
But it wasn’t critique – it was condemnation.
And the rule was clear:
The teacher is always right. You are wrong. Ouch.
It wasn’t just a grade. Or a comment.
It was a shock. A wave of shame.
And fear. Not just in class – but at home.
The reaction. The disappointment. The punishment.
One grade could change the whole atmosphere.
It wasn’t about pride. It was about survival.
And slowly, I internalized:
Something must be wrong with me.
My thoughts were unwelcome.
My perspective, misunderstood.
I didn’t fit.
Now I know:
They couldn’t understand me.
I was working on another level – not better, just different.
Wider, deeper, more playful. More creative.
I didn’t realize then how school was built on relationship, bias, and power.
I’m learning that now – through writing.
Here, on my blog.
Where I don’t need to perform.
Where I write because it fulfills me.
Perspective ≠ Truth
School was never about what you see.
It was about whether your view aligned with what the teacher wanted.
Interpretation wasn’t exploration – it was guessing the “correct” answer.
A multiple-choice essay with only one valid option.
I believed thinking was allowed.
That texts were spaces – open, personal, alive.
But apparently, they were corridors. Narrow and pre-scripted.
So we learn to fake it.
To echo.
To adjust.
To get it right – whatever that means.
That’s not education. That’s adaptation.
And it leaves a mark.
You become cautious.
You second-guess your own perception.
You stop speaking unless you’re sure it’s safe.
Now I know: “Right” often meant “fitting in.”
Fitting the method. The mood. The manual.
What is “off topic” if not a projection?
A judgment that says: You’re not supposed to see it like that.
But who decides?
I stopped playing the game
When my own kids started school, I knew:
I couldn’t protect them from the system.
But I could make sure they didn’t lose themselves in it.
My goal wasn’t to shield them.
It was to stand by them.
To remind them: You’re not wrong – just different.
Because I’d seen it.
Top grades from one teacher. Bottom grades from another – same subject, same kid.
Just a different relationship.
A teacher is human.
Assessment isn’t neutral.
It’s politics.
And then there’s time.
Timed tests. Timed essays. Timed minds.
Same task. Same deadline. Same judgment.
But people are not the same.
Some think fast. Some think slow.
Some go deep. Some go wide.
And that’s the beauty of it – or should be.
But school demands comparability.
Efficiency. Standardization.
As if thinking could be measured by a clock.
What’s left of real understanding?
I stood in between.
Not to intercept every blow –
but to whisper:
You don’t have to fit into this to be valid.
If “learning” means guessing what others want to hear –
and repeating it under pressure –
that’s not learning.
That’s obedience.
I didn’t want them to mistake that for truth.
My storytelling starts where judgment ends
I write again.
But not because I have to.
Not because I’m supposed to.
And definitely not to impress.
I write to reclaim something.
Something that had no place in school.
No box. No rubric. No grade.
Maybe that’s what storytelling is for me:
Not structure. Not strategy.
But release.
Letting the voice come through – unpolished, uncertain, but mine.
I know the rules:
Conflict. Tension. Hero’s journey.
But whenever I try to follow them, I freeze.
Because I remember the red ink.
The label: “Off topic.”
I write to take that back.
To create space again.
To think out loud.
To remind myself: being different isn’t wrong.
Maybe real storytelling begins the moment you stop wondering if you’re making sense to others.
🔜 Coming Soon: "Off Topic" – A PDF for writers with school trauma
A PDF for those who thought too deeply, felt too much,
and heard too often:
“That’s not how you’re supposed to write.”
🔻 If the word “essay” still makes you cringe...
And you still want to write – or maybe because of that –
then this might be for you:
👉 Off Topic – a PDF about reclaiming your voice.
(Coming soon – sign up to be the first to get it.)
🖋️ A few pages about school trauma, judgment as control,
and why your “wrong” tone might be the story that needed to be told.
Jutta