September Lessons

Turns Out, the Teacher Herself Is Still Learning
Hi. It’s been a minute.

And somehow, since the last time I really sat down to write here, a childhood dream of mine quietly became real: I’m a teacher.

Which still feels a little crazy to type.

I spent years imagining what it would feel like to finally be on this side of the classroom. I finished my degree in Early Childhood Education. I finished my master’s in Language and Literacy. I spent countless hours in classrooms learning about children, literacy, development, play, language, assessment, and instruction.

And then suddenly, the studying ended and the actual learning began.

Because here’s something I’m realizing very quickly:

Being a teacher means agreeing to never be finished learning.

Kids make sure of that.

They will completely dismantle the lesson you thought was brilliant. They will ask the question you never considered. They will solve something in a way you wouldn’t have. They will remind you that learning doesn’t always look quiet, organized, or particularly efficient.

And sometimes, if you pay close enough attention, they’ll teach you far more than you planned to teach them.

That might be my favorite part.

Protecting the wonder
I’ve always been drawn to early childhood because these are the years when children are beginning to figure out what school means to them.

Before reading becomes a grade, it is a story.

Before writing becomes an assignment, it is an idea worth putting on paper.

Before science becomes a subject, it is Wait... why does that happen?

Before school becomes something children believe they’re either “good” or “bad” at, it can simply be a place where they are allowed to wonder.

I want to protect that.

Of course I want my students to become strong readers, writers, thinkers, communicators, and problem-solvers. My graduate work in Language and Literacy made me even more fascinated by how differently children’s brains arrive at those skills.

But more than anything, I want children to leave my classroom believing:

I am a learner.

My ideas matter.

I can do hard things.

And learning can actually be really, really fun.

If I can help build that foundation, the academics have somewhere meaningful to grow.

Apparently, I’m a Seven...
Recently, I took the Enneagram with my teaching team and learned that I’m a Seven.

Absolutely no one who knows me will be shocked by this information.

Sevens tend to chase possibility. We love ideas, experiences, creativity, adventure, and the question of what else could I do?

Which explains... a lot.

It also made me realize something I needed to hear at exactly this point in my life.

Sometimes being excited about every door makes it difficult to appreciate the room you’re already standing in.

I caught myself recently thinking about everything ahead.

What will I do next year?

Will I eventually have my own classroom?

Could I become a reading interventionist?

What else could I take on?

Where could this lead?

And then I had to remind myself:

Girl. You literally just got here.

I am 23 years old. I finished a master’s degree in the field I love. And now I have an entire year to learn from incredible educators, work with the age group I adore, explore literacy more deeply, coach kids after school, try ideas, make mistakes, ask questions, and figure out what kind of educator I want to become.

I’m not stuck.

I’m learning.

And there is a huge difference.

Maybe the lesson right now is to let this be the dream for a while. To stop treating every good thing like a stepping stone toward the next good thing and actually notice that I’m standing in a life I once hoped for.

Learning my limits without limiting my life
September is also Pain Awareness Month, which feels especially fitting to write about while I’m thinking about everything I’m still learning.

Because teaching isn’t the only thing teaching me right now.

I’m also still learning how to live in a body that doesn’t always keep up with my brain.

Chronic pain and fatigue have a funny way of changing your relationship with time, energy, plans, and even ambition. I am someone who wants to say yes to everything. I want to teach all day, coach after school, go for the hike, make something, see my friends, start the new idea, stay up late, wake up early, and somehow squeeze three extra hours into every day.

My body sometimes has other plans.

For a long time, I think I viewed that as something I needed to beat. If I could just push harder, rest less, ignore it better, or become stronger, maybe I could live exactly like everyone else.

I’m slowly learning that thriving with chronic pain isn’t about pretending it isn’t there.

It’s about learning how to build a really full life around it.

And weirdly, there have been gifts hidden inside that lesson.

I’ve learned to pay attention to my body.

I’ve learned that rest is not the opposite of living.

I’ve learned that asking for help doesn’t make me less independent.

I’ve learned to appreciate the days when my body lets me run, hike, ski, coach, teach, travel, or simply stay out a little later than usual.

I’ve learned that sometimes changing the plan is what allows me to keep having plans.

And maybe most importantly, I’ve learned that having limits does not mean living a limited life.

There are still hard days. There are days when fatigue feels heavier than I want to admit. There are moments when it is frustrating to watch my brain be ready for ten things while my body is asking me to please choose three.

I don’t think the goal is to become endlessly positive about that.

The goal, at least for me, is to get really good at knowing myself.

To know when I can push.

To know when I need to stop.

To know what is worth spending my energy on.

And to stop feeling guilty about building my life in a way that lets me actually enjoy it.

Maybe that’s another version of learning.

Let this be the dream for now
Something about my life right now feels wonderfully full-circle.

During the school day, I get to be the educator who nerds out about how children learn to read, notices the little things, asks questions, creates, and tries to make school feel like a place children genuinely want to be, while watching, learning, and working with amazingly talented educators.

And then I get to walk onto a field and tap into the version of myself who spent summers as a camp counselor, the girl who loves teams, traditions, ridiculous enthusiasm, encouragement, and making kids feel like they’re part of something.

And somewhere in between all of that, I’m learning how to take care of the person doing it all.

For a long time, I thought growing up meant eventually choosing one version of myself.

I’m starting to think good teaching, a good, balanced life might require bringing all of them with me.

The student.

The literacy nerd.

The creative.

The coach.

The camp counselor.

The person who always has another idea.

The person learning when to keep going and when to rest.

The kid who dreamed about having her own students someday.

She’s here now.

And instead of immediately asking her what’s next, I think I’m going to let her enjoy it.

I have so much to learn this year.

I want to learn from experienced teachers. I want to understand early literacy more deeply. I want to notice individual children more, not just what they know, but how they think. I want to create things. I want to follow the ideas that excite me. I want to become better at the things that are hard.

I also want to learn how to do all of that without believing I have to run myself into the ground for my life to count as full.

Most importantly, I want to stay curious.

About my students.

About teaching.

About myself.

About what my body needs.

About where all of this might lead me eventually... without needing to know just yet.

Because maybe the goal isn’t to become the teacher who knows everything.

Maybe it’s to become the teacher who never stops wondering alongside her students.

And maybe the same is true outside the classroom.

I don’t have to have my career figured out.

I don’t have to have chronic pain figured out.

I don’t have to know exactly what comes next.

I just have to keep learning how to make this life mine.

So that’s where I am.

Childhood dream: somehow happening.

Master’s degree: apparently I really did finish that.

Chronic pain: still teaching me things I never signed up to learn.

Career plan: beautifully unfinished.

Life: very, very full.

And tomorrow morning, I get to walk back into a classroom and learn some more.

How freaking lucky am I?