I'm a good teacher and am great at observation and picking out

Abby Lee Miller, a figure both revered and contested in the world of dance, once declared: “I’m a good teacher and am great at observation and picking out what’s wrong and fixing it.” Though uttered in the context of dance instruction, these words reveal a truth far greater than the studio floor. For what is a true teacher, if not one who sees not only the beauty that already shines, but also the flaws that hinder growth, and has the courage to refine them? It is not cruelty to correct, nor harshness to demand better; it is the sacred labor of one who sees potential not yet realized and refuses to let it wither.

The origin of this thought lies in the very essence of teaching itself. Every student arrives with both gifts and shortcomings. To merely applaud the gifts is to flatter; to ignore the shortcomings is to abandon. But the true teacher is vigilant, a watchful guardian with an eye sharp as a hawk, seeing not only what is but what could be. Observation becomes the key, for in keen attention lies the power to discern the smallest misstep, the subtlest flaw, and to transform it into mastery. Abby Lee Miller speaks here as countless masters have spoken before her: the art of teaching is not blind encouragement, but clear-eyed correction done with purpose.

History abounds with such examples. Consider Michelangelo, who, when asked how he sculpted the magnificent David, replied that he merely removed the stone that was not David. This is the heart of correction: to see the form hidden within, to strip away the unnecessary, to fix what obscures the vision of greatness. Michelangelo was a sculptor of marble, but the true teacher is a sculptor of human potential, chiseling away faults, guiding students until their true selves are revealed.

Or recall the tale of Socrates, who walked the streets of Athens questioning all who would listen. He did not flatter them with easy praise but exposed contradictions in their thinking, forcing them to confront their own ignorance. Many found his ways uncomfortable, even infuriating, yet through this sharp observation he refined their understanding. Like Miller, he embraced the difficult role of revealing what was wrong, knowing that only through correction could truth be born.

The lesson here is profound: to correct is not to destroy, but to build. A fault seen and named is not a condemnation, but an opportunity. The hand that points out a weakness and then helps to fix it is a hand that lifts the student higher. Too often we shrink from correction, both giving it and receiving it, mistaking it for judgment. But in truth, it is the purest form of care. The indifferent leave us in our errors; the devoted call us to rise above them.

What, then, shall we practice? As teachers, mentors, or even friends, we must train our eyes to see with clarity, to notice not only the obvious strengths but the hidden weaknesses. And having seen, we must not turn away but act: correct gently, guide firmly, and offer the tools for growth. As students, we must learn to welcome correction, to see in it not humiliation but the path to mastery. Every flaw revealed is a door to improvement; every critique is a gift of vision we may not yet have ourselves.

Therefore, O seekers of growth, remember Abby Lee Miller’s words: the greatness of a teacher lies not in empty praise, but in relentless observation, in the courage to face what is wrong, and in the devotion to help fix it. To teach is to polish rough stone until it gleams, to guide faltering steps until they become a dance. If we embrace correction as sacred, then both teacher and student ascend together, and the art of living becomes a masterpiece.