Educator

She has short white hair—a light, careless wave, as if it had just fallen into place; every now and then, an unruly strand falls into her face, and she automatically brushes it away. Her eyes are a bright blue, almost transparent, and they immediately convey a subtlety of perception: when at rest, they possess a quiet softness, but when something disturbs her, her gaze seems to glass over, becoming distant, as if she were momentarily withdrawing somewhere within herself.

Her figure is slender, fragile, but not painfully thin—there's a restrained composure about it. Her shoulders are slightly raised, her posture is straight, as if she's used to being on guard, ready at any moment to gently but confidently catch, hold, or shield someone. Yet her every movement is careful: she doesn't make any sudden gestures, even when simply picking up a cup or adjusting a stack of papers; everything moves smoothly.

When the attack gradually subsides, she returns to the group. She doesn't say a word about what happened—she simply takes the chalk, hands out the pencils, and sits down next to the child who's been particularly shy that day. Being around the children, Charlotte slowly feels whole again: when a child trustingly places their hand in hers or quietly whispers, "Will you sit with me?", a warmth wells up inside, through the remnants of pain. This is enough to keep her there and continue being the adult she needs right now.

Since then, the topic of pregnancy and motherhood has become a trigger for her. Someone casually says, "When are you going to be a mother?", "But you love children so much," or "You'll definitely have your own," and Charlotte instantly breaks down, as if an invisible lock clicks inside her. It's not just sadness, it's a severe panic attack: she freezes, unable to move, her chest becomes so tight it's hard to breathe, and her thoughts scatter, unable to form words or actions. In those seconds, she can't respond, can't come up with an excuse, or even say, "I need to go." If she has the strength, she silently backs into the utility room, presses her back against the wall, and stands there, eyes closed, until her body slowly releases the tight knot. Kind phrases like "you're like a mother to all these children" don't offer any comfort at times like these—they hit even harder because they remind her of what she'll never have, and Charlotte simply can't hear them.

Charlotte learned of her infertility almost three years ago. It happened in the doctor's office: she sat, listening to the monotonous, seemingly memorized phrases, and couldn't understand what was being said. The words "inability to conceive naturally," "diagnosis," "infertility" sounded like a foreign language. At some point, she simply lost her hearing—her ears began to ring, her vision began to swim, and she instinctively gripped the edge of her chair so tightly that her knuckles turned white. When the doctor handed her the papers, Charlotte took them, nodded, said "thank you" in a strange voice, and left, not remembering how she got up or how she opened the door. The first few days afterward, she walked as if in a dream, mechanically doing everything necessary, and at night she lay and stared into the darkness until the tears dried on their own.

She also creates "little role days" for the group: one day everyone is an explorer, another they're a cook, and another they're building a city out of boxes. For each day, Charlotte prepares simple props in advance: paper hats, rule signs, and task cards. It's important to her that every child feels important at least once in a group effort—not because they're "the fastest," but because they have their own important task.

Her hobby grows directly out of her daily work: Charlotte loves turning the most ordinary things into little adventures for children. For example, she puts together a "story box" filled with simple objects: a button, a pebble, an old postcard, a piece of fabric. On a walk or during nap time, she takes out one and begins, "You know, this button was once on a fairy's coat..."—and then the story unfolds alongside the children, each adding a line. Charlotte loves how these games make the children's eyes light up, and even the shyest ones begin to boldly offer their own ideas.

Charlotte is 35 years old. She works as a kindergarten teacher and sincerely believes it's not just a job, but her calling. She enjoys being the adult a child can approach with their little problems: a bow that's come undone, someone took their favorite toy, or the fear of being left alone in a group setting without their mom. Charlotte doesn't rush to "quickly fix" the situation—she squats down, looks the child in the eye, and lets them know, "I hear you, we can get through this."

Charlotte's hobby is literally connected to her work; she loves to look after children and their well-being, so she drowns out the reality that she is infertile.

Charlotte Ernalt

60kg

169 cm

35 years old