Ever since I was a 12-year-old kid posting short stories on the internet, I’ve wanted to be a writer. I graduated from college magna cum laude with a BA in English and a minor in creative writing.
Then I started waiting tables at a sports bar. First, I needed the money. My student loans were $600 a month, and on a Saturday night I could walk away with half that in tips (much more than I’d make as a slush-pile intern at a publishing house). For another, I was afraid of failing at something I loved; I’d rather drive by with something I hated.
The universe had other plans. Days before I was fired, my fourth grade teacher sat down in my department. I didn’t notice her right away. I would later be diagnosed with one severe dissociative disorderwhich shuffles your memory and boosts your face recognition. But she recognized me.
“Hi, my name is Maria and I want to take care of—”
“Maria Cassano. I thought it was you.” A break. “You don’t remember me, do you? It’s Miss Bula, your . . .”
“Fourth grade teacher! Oh my god! How have you been?”
In the 15 or so years since she had me, she had gotten married and had children of her own. She introduced me to her husband and two boys who were sitting next to her. Miss Bula said she was still teaching but in a different class at a different school.
And then she asked a question that jolted me awake, dissociated or not: “Are you still writing? You were such a good writer.” A good writer? Then? I was nine. Nine-year-olds can barely spell, much less put a coherent sentence together. Had she seen something in meeven before I had seen it myself?
I didn’t tell her that I would have loved to write instead of memorizing dozens of beers and dealing with my creepy 45 year old boss. I also didn’t tell her that I’d already written two novels and couldn’t get a literary agent for either of them, so I’d chosen comfortable misery over vulnerable rejection.
All that would have forced me to confront the giant, aching hole inside me, and pushing emotions away was my strength. Instead, I told her, “No, this place keeps me pretty busy.”
“Don’t let it keep you busy forever. You don’t waste something like that.”
A few days later the boss called me into his office. He fired me on the spot for something I didn’t do (a story for another article) and I begged him to give me another chance. Every day I thank God that he basically said no.
Combined with the ego-shattering impasse, Miss Bula’s comment forced me to recognize that it was now or never. I started looking for writing positions. Eventually I got a job writing two articles a week for $10 an hour. I had no idea what I was doing and I was still afraid of failing – but this time I took the chance.
Fast forward a decade later: I asked TikTok to help me find my long-lost 4th grade teacher
I am a professional writer, editor and journalist with bylines in it Bustle, HuffPost, NBC, Allure, Food and Wineand others. I write about feminism, mental health and relationships here, where I have an incredible community of readers. I make a lot more than I did waitressing.
In 2024, I got a literary agent for my memoir about healing from dissociation, and last month my agent texted me with the best news of my life: “You have a book deal.”
I was over the moon, but the primary person I needed to thank was nowhere to be found. Over the past few years, I had tried several times to find and contact Miss Bula, but it was as if she did not exist. She was MIA. A digital ghost. Not a single school article, tagged photograph, Instagram profile or Facebook post.
I began to wonder if I had hallucinated her that day at the sports bar. Then I got an idea: I had seen TikToks where people asked the internet to help them track down missing friends, exes, relatives and people they had met on holiday. Why couldn’t they help me find my fourth grade teacher?
Social media isn’t my forte (I’ve been dodging behind trash cans to avoid being in pictures), but I was desperate to contact her, so I posted this awkward-as-hell video asking for help.
Thousands saw it. Strangers reposted to expand its reach. Several people DM’d me telling me that they too had Miss Bula and were going to try their hand at searching the internet.
I even had an elementary school friend reach out and tell me that Miss Bula had changed her last name when she got married, but because this friend was now an optometrist and Miss Bula was her patient, she was afraid to give me her contact information because of HIPAA laws.
Finally, a woman named Jenna came to the rescue. Jenna grew up in my hometown and her mother had been a teacher at my elementary school for over 20 years. Her mother knew Miss Bula personally and she was able to get me her new surname and an email address.
I wrote a message to Miss Bula explaining the situation. I sent her the TikTok so she knew what the hell was going on when someone inevitably told her, “Some girl on the internet is looking for you.”
Then I said the six words I’d wanted to say to my fourth-grade teacher for the past decade:
“Thank you for believing in me,” not once, but twice. I hit send and hoped for the best.
Several hours later, Miss Bula replied, and I was delighted to see that she was flattered rather than frightened:
“Oh my gosh! I’m so happy to hear from you! I’m so glad you followed your heart and continued to write. There’s nothing better than doing a job you love. I had several teachers in the faculty room in tears after showing them your TikTok! It’s so rewarding to know I’ve played a small part in helping you follow your dreams! We all hope we can make a positive impact on me when our students come! can’t wait to read it!”
I’m sure she’s trying to be humble, but she’s wrong; Miss Bula played a big role in my life.
If I hadn’t run into her 48 hours before I hit my dead end, I probably would have cut my losses and submitted my resume to another restaurant. I probably would have spent the rest of my life assuming I wasn’t good enough to do the one thing that lit me up from the inside out.
Instead, I wake up every day excited that I can earn government-issued money while following my dream. Spin words into something meaningful. Speak my truth, when once I had no voice at all.
And if others need to hear it, whatever you’re too busy doing to distract yourself from the aching, stubbornly persistent passion inside you, don’t let it keep you busy forever. A wise woman once said, “You don’t waste something like that.”
Maria Cassano is a writer, editor, and journalist whose work has appeared on NBC, Bustle, CNN, The Daily Beast, Food & Wine, and Allure, among others. She is in the process of publishing her memoir.
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