Student Writing Contest congratulations!
- 53 minutes ago
- 21 min read
Read the work of students from around the province on the theme of people, places, and practices that feel like home.
The student writing contest was a first for Teacher magazine, and we are truly impressed by the submissions we received from across the province. The breadth and volume of submissions far exceeded our expectations, and we would like to thank all the teachers and students who participated.
Students’ submissions were thoughtful and honest reflections of what home can look like. Many submissions explored connections to community, culture, family, friends, and hobbies. It was clear how much care and heart was put into creating these pieces, and we feel privileged to read these stories.
The student work reflects the time and effort teachers put in to guide and encourage students on their writing journeys. Creating space for students to write, reflect, and share their work resulted in a vibrant and impactful experience.
Here you’ll find a selection of winning pieces from each grade category of the contest. It was incredibly difficult to choose these pieces with so many beautifully written submissions.
We’re proud to share this work as a reflection of students’ talent and teachers’ mentorship. While only a few pieces could be selected, we want to acknowledge that every entry contributed to the richness and success of this year’s contest.
We’re grateful to everyone who participated and look forward to celebrating more of your writing in the future.
With gratitude,
Nandini Aggarwal, Alexa Bennett Fox, Robyn Ladner, Tamiko Nicholson, and Kristin Singbeil
Teacher Magazine Advisory Board
Quinn Delmaire, Prose, Honourable Mention
Kindergarten–Grade 3
Untitled by William Kole
Evergreen Trees by Luca Chutskoff
Untitled by Ellie Coan
Piano by Ayden Ma
Home Is My Pet Horse by Alisa Ostrovska
Untitled by Ricco Shi
Grades 4–6
Where the Wind Feels Like Home by Evariste Ankomah
Heart of My Home by Felix Wang
Who makes me feel like I am at home?
When it’s dark and I’m alone,
When doubts begin to cloud my head,
Who tucks me in my own bed.
It’s her, whose smile can light up the day,
And chase my restless thoughts away.
No matter where my feet may roam,
Her light will always guide me home.
The kitchen glows with warm coloured lights,
As her laughter warms the cold, chilly nights.
In simple meals and stories told,
Her love is far more valuable than gold.
The one who saves a seat,
With gentle glances and words so sweet.
The world may keep on changing, may be busy, loud, and fast,
But with her love around me, makes me feel safe at last.
Her love is like a fireplace glowing soft and bright,
Warming up my weary heart every single night.
She asks me how my day went and she truly wants to know,
And when I talk about it,
she listens to me like watching a show.
Her hugs are shields on stormy days,
Her words are calm each and every day.
Though twists and turns are shifting ways,
Her love is as warm as a fire that always stays.
If I fail or lose my way,
She does not turn her love away.
She helps me stand, she helps me stay,
And face another brand-new day.
She lights each and every room,
The quiet strength that makes me bloom.
She clears my clouds of gloom,
And chases monsters from my room.
So, who makes me feel like I belong,
When nights are short and days are long?
My Mom, but a home is not made of windows, bricks, or domes,
It’s found within love and kindness, that’s why with her,
I feel like I am home.
What Home Could Be by Arjen Kundu
Who Makes Me Feel Like Home by Nimrit Samra
Untitled by Jaden Solis
The Meaning of Home by Layla Stanway
Grades 7–9
The Thing in Between by Chloe Tseng
The thing in between. That was what mattered. That’s what he told me. He turned to face me, and pointed his finger at the middle of my chest. My arms were spread open, inviting him. He didn’t move. He simply looked at me and said, “The hug itself feels safe. But that’s not what matters. Your heart, the thing in between, is what makes me feel like I belong.” I stared at the boy sitting in front of me. He had changed so much since I first talked to him. Then, he was this quiet, closed-off kid that had pretty good taste in music. Now, he was my emotional crutch. Someone who knew exactly what to say. I knew I belonged with him.
I grinned and smacked his hand away from my chest. “My heart is on the left, not the middle, stupid. I thought you were good at science,” I said. He smirked back at me. We were sitting in a dimly lit hallway, our backs leaning against the felt soundproof wall. The faint booming of party music echoed through the double doors next to us. I sighed. The party outside was fun. It was full of head-pounding noise, the inside of my mouth sweet and sticky. But I decided I liked it better out in this hallway with the person I trusted with my life. I leaned my head on his shoulder.
“You realize this is not helping the dating allegations right?” he said, focused on the video game he had pulled out on his phone. I snorted and shoved him away. He ducked as I tried to slap his head.
“Way to ruin the mood,” I joked. He chuckled and focused back on his video game. It didn’t matter to me that everyone thought we were dating. He was my best friend. He helped me feel something I’ve never felt before, like all the pieces in my brain fit when we were together. My friends often joked around, asking how I didn’t gain any romantic feelings for a guy I spend so much time with. But they don’t know what a best friend feels like. A best friend was something beyond any high school relationship. I knew that the person beside me would be with me forever, even if we went our separate ways.
“You know, I’ve been to so many places over the years. Everywhere I went, I always felt like something was missing,” I said. He paused his game.
“I kind of feel that too. Like, whenever I was having fun, there would be a voice in the back of my mind, telling me that I could be having even more fun right then,” he replied. I snorted.
“Does that mean you think you could be having more fun right now?” I teased. He grinned. “No. You didn’t let me finish. With you, I guess I feel like I found what was missing. I think there are two different kinds of soulmates. The one you grow old with, and the one you grow up with. I think you’re my growing up soulmate,” I stared at the side of his face. I couldn’t believe that such deep words would ever come out of a 15-year-old boy’s mouth.
“I’m going to miss you a lot when I move away,” I whispered. He nodded.
“I know. But I’ll always be here,” he said. I believed him. I trusted him. Just like I always will.
Now I’m thousands of miles away. But whenever I feel that missing piece in my chest, I think about how it was filled. I will always value the thing in between.
People, Places, or Practices by Shiloh Pandeagua
Home isn’t always a house
with a door and a key.
Sometimes a home
is simply people—
like Cheska, Feona, and me.
Three voices tangled
like bracelets of thread,
laughing too loud
at the things we said.
Home is the colour
of soft pink skies,
the warmth of the sun
as it starts to rise.
It’s brown café tables,
notebooks spread wide,
and whispered secrets
with nowhere to hide.
Home sounds like giggles
echoing through halls,
like “Tell me everything!”
during long calls.
When my thoughts spill out
messy, tangled, and loud,
they sit there beside me,
patient and proud.
Cheska’s the sunshine
that brightens the day,
gold in her laughter
that chases clouds away.
Feona’s the calm shade of a tree,
soft summer breezes that settle in me.
And I’m in the middle,
the thread pulling tight,
three tiny sparks in
the warm evening light.
Different like petals in
the shades of rose pink,
but blooming together
much more than we think.
Home is the inside jokes
that we share,
the comfortable silence
when no words are there.
It’s spring in the air
when our laughter takes flight,
like fireflies glowing
in the soft summer night.
Even when distance stretched
roads far and wide,
even when new schools
pulled me to another side,
our voices still crossed
every mile in between—
through texts and through calls
and the memories we’ve seen.
Because real friendships
don’t quietly fade,
they grow like tall trees
giving cool summer shade.
Their roots twist together
in warm brown earth deep,
holding the promises
we always keep.
Sometimes I think
of the days we once knew—
pink sunset skies
and the bright morning dew.
Time keeps on moving
like rivers that roam,
but somehow our trio
still feels just like home.
So if someone asks
where my home might be,
I won’t point to buildings
or streets I can see.
I’ll point to two names
that mean more than the rest—
Cheska and Feona,
the place I’m most blessed.
Because home is a trio
That time cannot bend,
Two hearts beside mine
That will always be friends.
Through spring-coloured days
And warm summer foam,
With Cheska and Feona—
I’ll always have home.
Dance: My Home Away From Home by Lily Cross
Dance has always been more than just a sport to do after school for me. It is a part of me, it’s a second home. I love my breaks from dance, but whenever I’m without it, I feel so empty. The excitement on your first class back after summer break, or the adrenaline you get in the wings of the stage, it’s all things that make you feel closer with dance. Some days when I can't find the right words to describe how I am feeling, I'll let dance become my voice.
When I walk into class, I feel a sense of belonging that I don’t feel anywhere else; I can truly be myself, without worrying about what other people think. The other dancers feel like my siblings. We joke around, and sometimes argue, but also always have each other's backs, supporting, and pushing each other to be our best. There's something so special about being surrounded by people who understand the same passion, hard work, and exhaustion.
Teachers are like parents, often yelling corrections, but still supporting you from the sidelines, watching as you grow older, and into the dancer you’ve dreamt of becoming. Dance has watched me grow up too; from 2015, being a bunny, to now and the future with more complicated dances. Dance has been with me through my best days, and hardest days, but always sticking to me. It has taught me patience, confidence when I thought I could never achieve it, and how to keep going when it feels impossible.
Dance is like home, I feel so comfortable when I am dancing. My mind’s not wandering, or overthinking, just the music, beats, and counts. The stress, and things slowly weighing me down, lift with every movement. For these moments, nothing else matters except the feeling of dancing, and being free. Even on my most difficult days, dance reminds me I can do it, that I'm capable, and just why I love it and never want to stop.
Dance isn't just the place I go after school. It is the place I feel understood, my strongest, most confident, and where I can truly be myself. No matter how much I, or my life changes, I know when I step into the studio, and hear the music start I'm at home. Every bruise, sore muscle, and long rehearsal is worth it because dance makes me feel like I belong somewhere.
home is the color blue by Daley De Wynter
Home is the color blue
Because that’s my best friends color
I'm not sure if it's his favorite, I've never asked
But it's the color of our eyes
The color of his shoes
And he's my favourite color
He's the person I can ask about
Death and gelato in the same sentence
And he won't blink an eye
Because he thinks the same way
We could talk for hours
Never missing a beat
He's my home because he never tried to “fix me”
He loves all my mess and tears
Right along with the laughs
He’s my person because he won't say "don't cry”
He’ll just sit there
He’ll put his head on my shoulder
And wait it out with me
He's my brother because he always remembers
He’ll hold my hand without thinking
Because he knows I like subtle physical contact
He just knows
My home is a boy who looks like me
Someone I could say is my twin and no one would doubt it
I'm a different person around him
I'm myself
A person I've been afraid to be since I can remember
My home is a boy I know won't leave
And my home is the color blue
teleport by Swastik Khare
i close my eyes and i'm there
no airport no waiting
just heat on my skin
and noise that feels familiar
the first thing that finds me is food
oil popping in a pan spices loud enough
to announce themselves before i do
someone hands me a plate like they always knew
i was coming back
the people don't ask where i've been
they just pull me closer speak my name
the old way
aunties laugh too loudly
uncles argue like it's tradition everyone talking at once and somehow understanding
family isn't a word here it's a room
that keeps making space
i eat with my hands
like time never taught me another way
and for a moment i don't feel split
or far
or almost
i just exist exactly where i'm from
Untitled by Harshikha Harihara Subramanian
For me, the word “home” has always been the feeling of being loved. And that person who gave me that feeling is my loving grandmother, whom I call “paati” because of my Tamil culture. My paati has always loved me and supported me throughout. She always says that my cousin and I are like her eyes. Without one of us, she says she wouldn’t be able to see properly.
Some of my favourite memories from paati were simple ones. Like when she and I scroll through Facebook, looking at cooking recipes that make our mouth water, yet we would still be too tired to get up and make it. I secretly cherished those moments. These moments would often happen when I was supposed to be studying, but then I would goof off and watch reels with paati. And every single time my mom would ask me what I was doing instead of studying, she would always say that she called me over to show me something, and that she distracted me. I was and will be forever grateful to that. She blamed herself for me.
The times she would oil my hair and ask me about my day, handling my hair very gently. I could feel the warmth and care she puts, into each stroke through my hair. The smell of sesame oil would fill the room whenever she calls me to sit down. She always tells me to “brush out the stress”, and that method was very efficient for me. I told her all about my day, and she tells me about hers. It’s our little ritual that really makes our bond stronger. My favourite memory was when she would feed me with her hands. The food always tastes better when it comes from her. I wish i had talked with her instead of watching tv. I'm sure it would’ve made my food taste even better.
The way she and I would trot to the temple, slow but steady, as she grips my hand. When we reach the temple, she would always tell me to pray for my family’s wellbeing, and for me to study well. She made me realize how important it is to study well and to have fun at the same time. When we walk back home, she would mention lots of stories about how my mom and aunt got the highest grades in their class, and that I should take them as my role models. My paati is an amazing mom to both my mom and my aunt (mom’s younger sister). She used to tell me to always revise my concepts whenever I could. Though I was a little annoyed at the start, I genuinely understood that she was trying to make life and studying easier for me. I wish I had listened to her before and made her happy. My most cherished memory of all was when she would humbly brag about my drawings to others. The smile on her face, clearly showing her beaming pride and eyes that said, “Hey, look at my granddaughter, she’s such a great artist”.
While she tries to not brag too much, her face always gives her away. That look on her face, that is home.
Quite recently, my paati was diagnosed with AKF (acute kidney failure). Learning about the disease made me feel a sharp ache in my heart. Every time I video call her, she always displays a soft but tired smile, and half the time she is in the hospital going through dialysis, which is a treatment involving tubes going into your kidney. She always smiles and tries to stay strong in front of me, even though I know it hurts a lot. This is when I realized that home isn’t just a place with walls and doors, it’s the people who care deeply about you. It has always been my parents, paati and thatha (grandpa) for me. And I have high hopes that paati will recover.
Actually, I don’t need to hope. I know she will recover. For us. For me.
Grades 10–12
Untitled by Inès Lavaud
What is home?
Where is home?
Who is home?
If you asked me these questions,
I would say home isn’t
A thing
A place
A soul.
Home is
All things
All places
All souls
That give you a sense of safety.
Something that comforts you.
Somewhere your heart can rest.
Someone that brings you warmth.
To me, home is
Praying in beautiful Moroccan mosques
With colourful mosaics tiles
And smoothly carved wooden pillars.
With worn-out handmade carpets
And tasseled pillows.
With the warm air of the Medina
And the sweet scent of mint tea.
With the quiet breaths of prayers
And the vibrant songs of birds.
To share a silent understanding with the ones around me that are also in their prayers.
To feel the Divinely love with strangers
And without it feeling strange.
To gather once we are called to prayer.
To greet each other with salaams.
Home is personal.Home is universal.
Home is the reminder of where we came from and where we belong.
It’s the source of our nature.
No matter the nature, home is made of love.
Ask me again:
What is home?
Where is home?
Who is home?
Home is an expression of love.
Flower Trim by Caitlyn Watts
When I was younger, I would go to my grandparents’ house every day in the summer. My dad would drop me off, and I would see my gram gram and grandpa waiting in front of the large house by the entrance to the white door with a frosted window.
My mom told me that gram gram was the name my grandma chose when she became a grandmother. A more playful name, which suited her. I remember the feeling of comfort as soon as they wrapped their arms around me. I would say goodbye to my dad in his 1992 Toyota pick-up and listen to the sound of it drive away as I walked in the front door. Every detail of the house had my gram gram written all over it. Every pillow, coaster, picture frame, and little animal decoration intentional. The flower trim on the ceiling and the matching bench cushion in the foyer that sat next to a swan statue. The smell of the house so distinct I could remember it right now. It’s a inviting smell but also like walking into an antique store. It’s a laundry smell mixed with vanilla.
When I walked inside there was a big, curved stairway going upstairs and to the left a hallway to the kitchen and to the right a second living room themed with blue and white flowers. I remember the standing globe in the corner of the room next to old photographs of weddings and family. My gram gram used to teach me about which country was which, but I never paid attention. I was always too focused on the way it spun around so fast that it looked completely blank. I loved the way the colours blending and the shapes disappeared.
She used to be a secretary for a lawyer. She was so organized and good with people, but I always felt that she would be a great teacher. She taught me how to colour with crayons inside the lines. She would colour Cinderella and I would colour Belle, my favourite princess. She was so good that it made me feel insecure. She always assured me that practice makes perfect. Even though I hated my drawings, she always would hang them on the fridge. She was always so proud of me.
Down the hallway was the kitchen and a sunken living room. Further ahead and in between the two was a dining table. The light from the windows at the end of the table lit up the room. The windows faced a large backyard with a fishpond in the back corner with all different sorts of fish. They were orange, yellow, and white and on some occasions, I could see the black fish who hid under the rocks.
I would always get excited when they let me feed them. My gram gram would come outside with me and bring a large container that smelt like fish and dog food, and I would sprinkle a handful over the cloudy and dark water. She had two boys and never experienced having a daughter. Both my cousins, who are older, were boys as well. I am also an only child just like her. She understood being shy and wishing I had someone to play with growing up. I was never shy with her. I would put on performances for my grandparents and sing very loudly. I remember driving in my grandpa’s beige minivan to Olive Garden for their anniversary to meet my parents. My gram gram would sit in the back seat with me to watch Scooby Doo on the DVD player and talk about everything. Even when I would sleep over and me and my gram gram kicked my grandpa out to the guest bedroom and I couldn’t sleep, she would talk with me until I feel asleep, since I was always nervous to be away from home. In the morning, she would give me a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios with almond milk. My grandparents loved eating very healthy. While I ate with my grandma at the table, my grandpa would eat in the living room on his black leather chair and watch the news. My gram gram always made sure I had everything I needed. Sharpies (I loved drawing with sharpies), a blanket and pillow for the couch when I was cold, a blueberry bearpaw (her favourite) and ice water from the cool cups. She always kept the menus I’d draw on at restaurants or the crafts I would make her.
The best memories were in the game room where I had all my toys. She would play with me until I got bored or hungry. I would always run up there after breakfast and I would hear her come up the stairs singing in her distinct voice, “Here I come to save the day!” I think that’s from a cartoon show, but to me, that was my gram gram. A hero—someone who showed up for me no matter what.
Even when she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, she just wanted to be gram gram. When I would come upstairs, she wouldn’t sing. She wouldn’t play either. She would just watch me and then get distracted and start obsessively cleaning. She was always very neat but then every crumb would bother her. I didn’t really understand, I was eight after all. It wasn’t until I started cleaning up one day and she came in the game room upset, saying, “Don’t get rid of the toys sweetie; children are going to come and use them.” She said those words like she didn’t even know me. I wasn’t her granddaughter—I was a random child in her house, a stranger. My grandparents stopped showing up for special occasions because it was hard for her to process. She always seemed happy though. She would still talk to me but would get confused. A couple years ago my grandpa finally agreed to let her stay in a facility that would work best for her needs. It’s hard though. You spend all those years of your life with someone just for those years to disappear. A home I considered my second home was bare, stripped away of its glitter.
After my grandma moved, it felt weird in their house. The picture still hung on the fridge, the wall trim still full of her. It’s like even though she’s gone, she’s alive in this house. The years following covid, I started talking to my grandpa more than I ever did before. I felt sad at first, since I didn’t know what to talk about, but the more my parents and I would visit him, the closer we got. There would be times where my dad would be working on something in the backyard and I would sit in the living room and talk to my grandpa about school and guitar, since he used to play. The more we talked, the more he would open up to me about his childhood and when my dad was little, which we had never really talked about. We would also talk about grandma and he would tell me funny stories. I then realized, it’s not that he didn’t want to tell me, it’s because I never asked. My grandpa became a huge part of my life since most of my family in Canada either moved or passed away. Me, my parents, and my grandpa now spend holidays together and he started just dropping by to see us.
Even though I gained such a great relationship with my grandpa, it stills feels so empty going back to their house. Her office left exactly how she left it with her nail polish on the desk shelf completely dried up, drawers full of menus and birthday cards, books neatly placed on the shelf, and a star sticky note that I wrote the letter W on with glitter glue taped to her shelf. The big dog stuffie she would dress up when I’d come over with a hat and sunglasses sits on her chair in the game room. I noticed about a month ago, her purse sitting behind a couch chair in the blue living room. Everything looked untouched and dusty. My grandpa would never admit it, but it must have been too hard to look inside knowing she would never carry it around again. I still visit her, in her new facility. She doesn’t talk or move, but she eats, so I come and help feed her lunch once a week with my dad. My dad goes every day to feed her. My grandpa does dinner.
I like to imagine she isn’t in there suffering. That she’s still in that house. Making sure it’s clean and watching over my grandpa. I’d like to think she feeds the fish and waters the flowers. I’d like to think she’s in the flowers on the wall trim, surrounding the house and reminding us that she’ll always be with us even when the trim fades.
La Pollution de Kinshasa by Iva Masiala
It snuggles you like a blanket
A family blanket
A warm, wanted, embrace that smells like your mother, sister, and—sadly—even your stinky, newborn brother. That lets you know, you can relax now.
It’s soft and undulating, like the hills of Boma
Vivid and enchanting like the sunsets of Brazza
And the fabric’s tiny stains don’t even enter your mind as you allow it to cover your cold, shivering body because you know, regardless, it will ease out your breath.
Even if it is for only a moment.
For one minute
one hour
one whole day
The pollution of Kinshasa is my blanket.
The pollution that chokes my lungs for the first 3 days of my trip
The pollution that bleeds the sky into an orangey-grey
The pollution that forces its way into the airplane cabin as soon as we land and whispers:
You’re home.
From my privileged ledge, I enjoy the views down windy, rocky roads
The green in the trees
The grass
And the salty pondu my aunty makes in the back of our family’s compound.
I don’t understand my aunt
Or anyone in fact
Their languages wind and twist into sounds I have not yet deciphered.
But we communicate in subtle nods and smiles that comfort my soul more than English ever could.
I am invisible here.
I am nobody.
And nobody talks to nobodys
Nobody expects anything from nobodys
And a quiet nobody can drink free African Fanta in the morning without anyone telling them to drink water instead.
Home is memories by Isla Watson
Licking batter off the spoon,
scraped knees and calluses,
fights with my sister
that never lasted long.
Bedtime stories and songs,
Costco trips with Dad, where nothing happened,
and yet everything did.
And creaky floorboards in the hallway
that knew every step I took.
Making silly videos,
dressing up in costumes,
ripping open presents on Christmas Eve.
Playing dolls with my sister,
running through the sprinkler,
not one worry in my mind.
Building forts from blankets and chairs.
Small moments,
Enough to forget on their own,
but together each laugh, each argument,
each moment of peace and joy,
build a home.
And every day
More memories are made,
Each memory layered together,
and home
Never stops growing.
Where My Heart Arrives First by Nandini Aggarwal, teacher, Surrey
The following was written by Nandini Aggarwal, teacher and Teacher Magazine Advisory Board member, about her relfections on the concept of home.
Sometimes I am sure home is not where I usually sleep. Sometimes my classroom is my home
with scraped chairs, torn posters, and the whispers of bodies learning how to belong.
Small feet hesitate at the doorway, and I know this is the most crucial moment of the day. We both know it.
This home holds twenty-six different stories, backpacks heavier than the books inside them, filled with memories, worries in many languages, and hopes carried quietly.
This home is twenty-six different stories: the child who tells a breaking story too fast, the one who avoids eye contact so they won’t be asked for help, yet stands the closest anyway, and the one who laughs the loudest because it is easier than explaining.
Home is reading their silences knowing who didn’t sleep, who forgot a snack, who needs a bandage, another chance, or simply, “I’m glad you’re here.”
Home is teaching them to tie their shoelaces, and sometimes tying them anyway.
Wiping tears before they fall. Applauding the smallest victories as if they are grand. Inside these four walls,
I am not only teaching lessons, I am holding space, trying to keep this loud world gentle for six hours.
I am building a home where mistakes are safe and all twenty-six matter.
They leave pieces of themselves behind a giggle, a crayon mark in the air and somehow take pieces of me too. This home is messy, exhausting, loud.
But it is where my heart feels fullest. Because home is the place where we take care of each other.
And each morning, my heart arrives before I do.
