The lessons Queena left us

By Herman M. Lagon

There are teachers who fill a schedule, and there are teachers who fill a life. Atenean Professor Queena Lee-Chua was the latter.

News of her passing did not arrive like an announcement—it arrived like a pause. Former students sat quietly at their desks, scrolling through old lecture photos. Parents remembered folded newspaper clippings on their dining tables. Teachers exchanged messages that felt less like mourning and more like thank-yous wrapped in heartache. Some learned from her in classrooms, others in seminars; many met her in her books or stumbled upon her voice in vlogs, interviews, and evening news features.

However she reached us, she reached us deeply. The country lost a scholar; classrooms lost a compass.

For many, math was a wall. Queena made it a door.

She had that rare gift—explaining complex ideas without making anyone feel small for not understanding sooner. She never believed fear belonged in learning. In her class, getting it right was good, but trying—even trembling—was better. She turned mistakes into laughter and made math feel like a place where everyone had a seat, not just the brilliant or the bold.

Her legacy was not only academic; it was emotional. She helped thousands unlearn the shame that often comes with failure.

Her accomplishments reflected this mission. As the author of widely circulated books such as Learning: Why Some Children Don’t Learn the Way We Teach and Helping Our Children Do Well in School, she didn’t just write about education—she wrote into the anxieties of parents, the doubts of students, and the hopes of teachers. Her works became quiet companions in homes, passed around in faculty rooms, and bookmarked on bedside tables by mothers easing their children’s fear of math.

Beyond the page, Queena championed mental well-being long before it became a buzzword. Through her parenting pieces, school talks, and quiet work with institutions, she pushed for learning spaces built on patience, listening, and respect. She helped move the focus from grades to growth, from pressure to genuine presence. Because of voices like hers, more families and schools now allow children the room to learn with mistakes, joy, and rest.

Through her books, lectures, columns, and conversations, she defended a simple truth—learning requires humanity. She knew that a child unable to breathe from pressure cannot solve, process, or create. She understood families stretched thin by expectations and teachers carrying more than teaching. Her writing offered calm without denying the storm.

To parents, she said: let children own their victories and their mistakes. To teachers: mastery demands patience. To students: you are more than your grade. These did not sound like slogans—they sounded like wisdom earned by listening.

Queena also reminded us that math lives beyond the classroom. For her, numbers were more than answers. They guarded us from deception, sharpened our judgment, and kept leaders honest.

Yet for all her accolades—and there were many—what people remember most was her presence. A professor who stayed after class. A writer who answered emails thoughtfully. A mentor who believed clarity was an act of kindness.

Her passing leaves questions—not mathematical ones, but human ones: Who will help the anxious student breathe? Who will remind parents that support is not control? Who will translate policy into something real?

Maybe her answer, if she were still here, would be: all of us.

Her life was proof that teaching is not merely instruction—it is companionship on the road to understanding. She demystified numbers, yes. But more importantly, she dignified learners. Confusion, she taught, is not a flaw—it is the starting step of curiosity, the beginning of courage.

Today, we hold her lessons, but more deeply, the confidence she sowed in moments we felt small. To honor her is to remember the ease she brought into anxious spaces, where she made the impossible look almost kind. She didn’t only teach; she lifted. And long after the lectures ended, the courage she sparked keeps speaking. What we will remember most is how she made us feel seen and capable. That kind of teaching doesn’t fade. It stays.

For many of us, her voice sounded like this: “Let’s think through it. You’ll get there.”

May her memory stay as steady as that guidance. May her work continue in every teacher who explains patiently, every parent who listens longer, every student who tries once more.

Thank you, Queena, for making learning feel less frightening and the world a little kinder, one gentle explanation at a time. Your equation may be unfinished, but its answer lives on in the people you helped believe they could.

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Doc H fondly describes himself as a ”student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.