Becoming Her

September felt a little bit like being thrown into the life I had spent years saying I wanted.

And then realizing that actually living it is very different from imagining it.

A 7:30–4:30 workday is no joke. Neither is packing lunches, remembering appointments, calling doctors, answering emails, doing laundry before you completely run out of clothes, figuring out dinner, making plans, keeping plans, saving money, taking care of yourself, and somehow going to bed early enough to do it all again the next morning.

Turns out, becoming an adult is mostly just realizing there is always something else you could probably be doing.

September taught me that. But it also taught me something much better: I really, really like the life I am building.

There have been tired mornings. There have been days when I’ve gotten home and wanted absolutely no one to speak to me. There have been moments when I’ve wondered how people work full-time jobs and also exercise, cook, see their friends, call their long-distance friends, keep in touch with extended family and grandparents, and somehow still have clean sheets.

I am still working that part out.

But somewhere between the early alarms and the long days, something has started to click.

I am becoming my human at school.

Not the version of a teacher I thought I was supposed to be. Not the polished teacher voice or the person who walks into every situation knowing exactly what to do. Just me.

And the more comfortable I become being myself there, the more I understand why I was drawn to this kind of school in the first place.

I get to play.

I get to sit on the floor and listen to a four-year-old tell me something that is, to them, the most important story in the entire world. I get to watch children create games out of nothing. I get to ask questions instead of immediately giving answers. I get to notice who needs a little extra encouragement, who needs movement, who needs quiet, and who just needs an adult to genuinely listen.

I get to know kids as people.

After spending so many years learning about children, earning a degree in early childhood education, studying language and literacy, writing papers, observing classrooms, and learning the theories, I am finally getting to live inside the kind of learning I have always believed in.

Play matters. Relationships matter. Feeling known matters. Joy matters.

And maybe one of my biggest September lessons was realizing that those things don't stop mattering when you grow up.

Because while I have been watching these kids figure themselves out, I think I have been doing a little bit of that too.

I am learning what kind of teacher I want to be. I am learning what I want my days to feel like. I am learning how much energy I have to give and when I need to protect some of it for myself. I am learning that being independent isn't suddenly knowing how to do everything; it is slowly proving to yourself that you can figure things out.

And I'm learning, again, that my body can do hard things, even through the constant fatigue, aches, and pains. I know myself well enough to know that I am at my best when I have something to work toward, a goal, a challenge, or the next thing that reminds me just how much I am capable of.

So this month, I signed up for a half marathon.

The first weekend of February, I will run it alongside a friend I met because of vasculitis. We are doing it to kick off Rare Disease Month by raising money and awareness for the Vasculitis Foundation, a cause that is obviously incredibly personal to both of us.

There is something pretty full-circle about that.

There have been times in my life when my body has made the decisions for me. Times when plans changed because I was sick. Times when being strong had absolutely nothing to do with running, working out, or crossing a finish line.

So this half marathon isn't really about proving that I can run the miles.

It's about getting to choose a hard thing.

It's about two people whose bodies have put them through things they never signed up for, deciding to sign up for something hard anyway.

And maybe that is what I want October to be about.

Choosing my hard things.

Because working long days can be hard, but I get to spend them doing work that feels meaningful.

Growing up can be hard, but I get to build a life that feels like mine.

Training will be hard, but I get to move my body toward something that once might have felt impossible.

Teaching is hard, but every day I get another chance to become the teacher I used to imagine being.

September wasn't a month where I figured everything out.

It was a month where things started feeling a little more like mine.

My classroom voice. My routines. My relationships. My career. My responsibilities. My body. My life.

Maybe becoming isn't some giant transformation you suddenly notice one morning.

Maybe it's packing your lunch the night before.

It's getting up when the alarm goes off, which happens to be one of my big goals for October. I want early mornings to become part of my routine again, giving me a little bit of time that belongs to me before I spend the day giving my time and energy to everyone else. Lately, I've been choosing every possible extra minute of sleep. This month, I want to find a better balance.

It's sitting on the floor with a child and really listening.

It's coming home exhausted and going back the next morning because you genuinely want to.

It's signing your name up for a half marathon four months from now.

It's realizing that the childhood version of you who wanted so badly to become a teacher would probably think your life right now is pretty freaking cool.

I don't think I've become her yet.

But I think I'm becoming her.

And for October, that feels like enough.