This article is adapted from Ted's podcast episode 354: Beyond the Label: A Conversation with Author and Leader Rainey Briggs.

When Rainey Briggs was told he would repeat third grade, something inside him broke. Not the kind of break that shatters completely, but the kind that creates fault lines you carry for a lifetime. The kind where your friends look at you differently and whisper when you walk by. The kind where the word "retarded" gets attached to your name in conversations your mother tries to shield you from.

The kind of break that either destroys you or becomes the foundation for something extraordinary.

Rainey chose extraordinary.

Today, Dr. Rainey Briggs stands as a superintendent, author, and living testament to the power of resilience. His book, Beyond the Label: A Leader's Journey from IEP to EdD, chronicles a path that should inspire every educator, parent, and leader who has ever wondered whether one person can truly overcome the systems designed to categorize and limit them.

Spoiler alert: they can.

But not alone. Never alone.

The Teachers Who See Beyond the File Folder

"Ms. Belnavis was the very first person I had as a teacher," Rainey told me, his voice carrying that special warmth reserved for people who changed our lives. "She looked like me, she sounded like me. Every now and then, I saw her in my neighborhood, but I thought I was seeing a ghost because why is my teacher in my neighborhood?"

She was his first experience in education in Madison, Wisconsin, after his mother moved them from the rough streets of Pine Bluff, Arkansas, seeking something better. Ms. Belnavis taught him something that would echo through decades: that you could be loved, seen, and believed in, all at once.

"Her biggest thing was loving kids, making sure kids saw the best of themselves," Rainey reflected. "She always said there are many things you will do wrong, but there are as many things you're going to do great. Those things you do wrong, the hope is that you learn from them. Those things you do well, the hope is that you have an impact on other people that they remember."

Think about that for a moment. A teacher in an elementary classroom, probably overwhelmed and underpaid, taking time to plant seeds in a young mind about impact and legacy. About the mathematics of mistakes and triumphs balancing out. About being remembered not for your labels but for your light.

That's not teaching. That's prophecy.

When the System Labels You

But then came third grade. The retention. The whispers. The friends who suddenly treated him differently. The label that followed him like a shadow: mildly retarded.

"It killed me as a youngster," Rainey said, and I could hear decades of pain compressed into those few words. "It killed my love for education."

Here's what breaks my heart about Rainey's story, and what should break yours too: they kept him with the same teacher for his second year of third grade. Imagine being told you failed, and then being placed back in the same environment with the same person, expected to somehow succeed differently.

It's like telling someone they can't swim and then throwing them back in the same pool with the same instructor.

And then, as if the universe was testing just how much one child could endure, fourth grade brought a drug bust. Twenty white police officers in his home. His parents arrested. His world shattered.

"For years, I didn't like police officers because they took my parents away," Rainey admitted. "I didn't condone what was done with drugs, and I understand that now. But at the same time, this was my first experience with police officers taking some really important people away from me."

He was nine years old.

Nine.

Labeled. Retained. Traumatized.

And somehow, still standing.

The Man Who Chose Him

But here's where Rainey's story takes a turn that illuminates something profound about human development and resilience. Enter Otis.

Otis wasn't Rainey's biological father. He was his mother's partner, a man who made the extraordinary choice to raise another man's children as his own.

"There's not one person probably in this world that I look up to more," Rainey said, his voice thick with emotion even though Otis passed away in 2007. "Someone who takes responsibility for someone else's kids, raising them, and at the same time, building this family with my mom."

Through twenty-eight years with Otis, Rainey learned how to be responsible, how to take care of family, why it's important to hold yourself accountable when you make mistakes. He learned that you're going to make mistakes, and you've got to take responsibility for those things.

Otis had a saying: "You're dying my time." That's what he'd say whenever he answered the phone. Another favorite: "I'm not always right, but I'm never wrong."

But the most important thing Rainey learned from Otis wasn't a quote. It was a living demonstration of courage. Because as Rainey writes in his book, "It takes tremendous courage to be a father figure for children who are not biologically your own."

I had never thought of it that way until I read those words. Never once in thirty-plus years of education had I considered the profound bravery required to step into that role. The courage to love someone else's children as your own. The courage to stay when the world would understand if you left.

That's the kind of courage that changes generations.

Handling Hard Better

Rainey had coaches who pushed him. Jonathan Briscoe, who always said, "I'm mean, but I'm fair," pushed his South Side Raiders football team to understand that when things got hard, you pushed through. You didn't give up.

"We don't handle hard, we learn to handle hard better," Rainey explained, referencing a viral video from Duke's coach. "That's what I've learned over my journey with a ton of situations. I've always asked myself, 'Why do they keep happening?' And they're lessons for me, but also ways to teach and help people in society be better."

Read that again: We don't handle hard. We learn to handle hard better.

This is the mindset that carried a boy labeled "mildly retarded" through retention, through poverty, through systemic racism, through career setbacks, through a graduation incident that nearly broke him, all the way to a doctorate in education and a superintendent's chair.

Not by avoiding hard. By getting better at handling it.

The Personal Cost of Leading While Black

Rainey's book doesn't shy away from the brutal realities of being a Black educational leader in America. PE teachers who refused to work with him. Colleagues who used racially charged language in texts to describe him behind his back. A community member who created a graduation incident that left him questioning everything.

But here's what makes Rainey's story so powerful: his chapter on mental health and wellbeing doesn't read like victimhood. It reads like victory.

"Sometimes survival means choosing yourself, even when the world demands you sacrifice everything," he writes. "Your worth is not measured by the battles you fight, but by the strength it takes to choose your own healing."

This is revolutionary thinking for those of us raised to believe that leadership means sacrifice without limit. That serving others means neglecting ourselves. That stepping into our storms means accepting every wound as a badge of honor.

Rainey learned differently. He learned that he kept moving forward while never addressing the pain. He was graceful with people, always gave them the benefit of the doubt, took things on himself. Until he couldn't anymore.

"I have to think about myself," he realized. "I have to think about my own mental health."

Our generation's gift, I believe, is finally accepting that a heartache is the same as a sprained ankle. When your heart aches and starts dripping that little bit of adrenaline into your stomach, making you fluttery and nervous, and you cyclically start to loop with negative narratives about yourself as a result of other people's actions, you're done.

You don't rub a little dirt on it. You heal.

The Triangle of Love

When Rainey talks about dismantling labels in education, he doesn't just criticize the system. He offers something better: the Triangle of Love.

Acceptance. Appreciation. Understanding.

"Those three things cause labels to not even matter," he explained. "Because you're really understanding where the individual's coming from, you're appreciating what they're bringing, and you're accepting what they bring in a way that helps them continue to be their best."

He applies this to everyone, from students to staff. "This label doesn't set me apart differently from you all, but people treat me like it does," he tells his teams. "I'm a human being. I put my pants on just like you put your pants on. I brush my teeth just like you brush your teeth. Those kids do the same things. They're smiling, they're happy, and they're sad just like I get at times."

Labels are for filing. Labels are for clothing. Labels are not for people.

The Six Principles That Guide Him

When I asked Rainey about the processes he's adopted to face injustice and create change, he introduced me to something I'm embarrassed to admit I'd never encountered: Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s six steps to social change.

As a history major and lifelong advocate for the underdog, I was stunned. How had I missed this?

Here they are, the principles Rainey uses to navigate every challenge:

One: Information Gathering. Get to know the people you're working with. Even those who have caused harm. Understand where they're coming from, what their experiences were that caused them to become who they are.

Two: Education. Educate yourself on ways you can possibly be better, ways you can work with individuals, ways you can uplift and support people who may be causing harm to others.

Three: Personal Commitment. Make a personal commitment to things you want to see yourself do better, or in supporting other individuals, or just taking care of yourself. Commit to doing things differently.

Four: Negotiations. Have those conversations and discussions. Use grace. Understand that there will be an impact on someone regardless as you confront injustices.

Five: Direct Action. Plan for addressing things. You can't just let them go unresolved. What actions will you take? You can't just say you're going to do something. You have to be willing to make sure you do it with clear data and clear outcomes.

Six: Reconciliation. Along the way, there's going to be some level of harm caused. Somebody may not like something you said or did. How are you going to reconcile those things in a way that supports moving forward?

I immediately created a tool from these principles for continuous improvement in leadership. I even added a "K" to the traditional SWOT analysis: Kryptonite. What stops us from everything? What are those pieces that paralyze us?

The Three Daughters Who Light His Life

Rainey has three daughters. When I asked him what he thought they'd say about him when he's not around, his answer revealed everything about the man he's become.

"They would say he knows everybody," Rainey laughed. "So you can't do anything that he wouldn't learn or hear about or find out. But I think they would also say he is probably one of the most loving, caring, believing-in-you person they know."

He paused, then added something that made me yell out loud when I read it in his book: "My girls are the light of my life. They are the reason that I keep moving forward."

I shouted because I describe my daughter Grace the exact same way: the light of my life. My son Charlie is the spark, but Grace is the light.

"Briggs, I don't remember seeing you around when I was raising my kids, man," I told him. "How does this happen?"

But I know how it happens. It happens when someone like Otis shows you what fatherhood looks like. When Ms. Belnavis shows you what love looks like. When Coach Briscoe shows you what pushing through looks like. When your mother shows you what sacrifice looks like.

It happens when you spend a lifetime being labeled and decide that the only label you want your children to see is "Dad who believes in me."

The Partner Who Makes It Possible

Behind every leader who charges into storms, there's usually someone holding the umbrella.

For Rainey, that's his wife. Thirty-one years together. Twenty-five years married.

"I've been with her longer than I think I've been alive," he said with a laugh. "People you just can't give enough credit to for helping you be who you are. I would not be in education today if it wasn't for her. I would not be as graceful. I would not be as thoughtful. I would not be as much of a girl dad without her."

Through thick and thin, she's been there to lift him up, support him, give him encouragement. Even in times when he didn't want it. Even when he did stupid things. Even when he said crazy things about not wanting to do these jobs anymore. She was there encouraging him, reminding him why he was probably the best person for that job, why he should continue to be that mentor to others.

She's his ride or die. His jewel.

And when the graduation incident happened, when a community member put him in an impossible position that wasn't his responsibility at all, she was the first call.

That's enduring love. That's the kind of partnership that makes it possible to transform trauma into testimony.

The Advice That Changes Everything

When I asked Rainey what advice he'd give to young people who may be judged, to young leaders, to people in different seasons of life, his answer was pure Otis wisdom filtered through decades of experience:

"Know what you stand for, value, and believe. If you don't know what you stand for, you'll fall for anything. If you know those things, it's gonna be really hard to knock you off your rocker. Despite who's in office, who's not in office, despite who's serving as the superintendent in a district, your team captain, whatever. If you know what you stand for, belief, and value, you gonna be all right."

This is the wisdom of someone who has been knocked down repeatedly and gotten back up every time. Not because he's superhuman, but because he knows who he is at his core.

Why This Story Matters to Every Leader

Rainey's journey from IEP to EdD isn't just an inspirational story. It's a mirror for every system, every educator, every leader, every parent who has ever held power over a child's future.

How many Raineys have we lost because we were too quick to label? How many brilliant minds have we confined to remedial boxes because we couldn't see past their circumstances? How many future superintendents, doctors, engineers, and leaders have we crushed under the weight of low expectations wrapped in official-looking forms?

And here's the uncomfortable truth: Rainey survived not because of the system, but in spite of it. He made it because of Ms. Belnavis, Otis, Coach Briscoe, his mother, his wife, and a few other believers who refused to let a label define a life.

But what about all the kids who didn't have those people?

That's why Rainey's story matters. Not because it proves the system works, but because it illuminates how badly we need to change it.

The Book You Need to Read

Beyond the Label: A Leader's Journey from IEP to EdD is available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and wherever books are sold. There's now a digital version for Kindle and Apple Books too.

But fair warning: this isn't a comfortable read. It's free therapy. It's a mirror. It's a challenge.

Rainey writes with self-empathetic reflection about his formation, his journey through cyclical poverty, his resilience, his grace. Chapter by chapter, he lays out what happened, how it felt, and what he learned. He doesn't shy away from the pain or the cost of leading while carrying labels others assigned to him.

He ends each chapter with reflective questions that will make you think about who your Ms. Belnavis was. Who your Otis is. Where you're learning to handle hard better. How you're using grace while also protecting your own mental health.

Reading Rainey's book, I kept stopping to ask myself: "Who's my version of that person? Who's my version of Otis? Who's my version of Mrs. Smith?" It was beautiful and uncomfortable and necessary.

The Choice We All Make

"We all make choices," reads a quote in Rainey's book from Ken Levine, "but in the end, our choices make us."

Rainey has made choices at every crossroads of his life. When he was labeled, he could have believed it. When he was retained, he could have quit. When his parents were arrested, he could have lost hope. When colleagues used racial slurs about him, he could have become bitter. When the graduation incident happened, he could have walked away from education forever.

Instead, he chose to learn to handle hard better.

He chose to accept, appreciate, and understand rather than label and limit.

He chose to be the light of his daughters' lives the way Otis had been for him.

He chose healing over bitterness, grace over grudges, advocacy over apathy.

These choices made him who he is: Dr. Rainey Briggs, superintendent, author, and living proof that labels are lies we let others tell about us until we're strong enough to rewrite our own story.

Your Turn

So here's my challenge to you, the one Rainey's story demands we ask:

Who are the people in your life that you can lean into every time you need both advice and comfort? Who gave you your soft place to land, your opportunity to reflect and learn and grow?

And more importantly: whose Ms. Belnavis are you? Whose Otis? Whose coach who teaches them to handle hard better?

Because here's the truth that Rainey's entire journey illuminates: None of us makes it alone. Every single person who has ever overcome a label, shattered a limitation, or transformed trauma into triumph has done so because someone saw them, believed in them, and refused to let the system's labels become their destiny.

Be that person for someone.

See beyond the IEP, the demographics, the zip code, the mistakes, the labels.

See the superintendent. See the doctor. See the leader.

See Rainey before Rainey even sees himself.

That's not just good leadership. That's how we change the world, one believed-in child at a time.

Because every kid, every day, whatever it takes.

That's Rainey's motto. Let it be ours too.