Endings are Hard. So are Beginnings.

After 15 years as a public school teacher, I left my job in June. Explaining why hasn't been easy. But here's what's next.

Endings are Hard. So are Beginnings.

Growing up, I was very clear on one thing: I had no interest in becoming a teacher.

When I was about nine, my mother made the sudden career transition from stay-at-home mom to school librarian (at MY school, to be exact) and I got a close-up view of all that entails. The constant professional development. The late nights writing lessons and grading papers. The lack of appreciation (a classmate once complained my mom had been grumpy to him and I thought, “I get it, buddy. I live with her.”). On the days she was most burnt out and overstimulated, she would come home and disappear into her room with a stack of work, a bag of peanut M&Ms, and a Honey Brown lager. We didn’t dare interrupt Mom Time Out.

The way I describe it, you’d probably imagine she hated this work. And yet, the opposite was true. She was enamored with the challenge of teaching. Like other types of human-facing work, teaching is defined by novelty, flexibility, and one’s ability to respond in the moment to a wild myriad of circumstances. It’s a terrible, magical, transfixing puzzle. She fell in love. Then so did I.

Holding my mom’s hand during construction of one of the two schools she helped found. The early ‘90s was nothing if not great fashion. Also, gotta love a hard hat.

I fought the teaching bug for a good long time, intentionally pursuing a master’s in creative arts therapy, not education. Then I was placed at my first school, working with nonverbal kids on the autism spectrum, and I recognized that, for me, school + kids = home. If I couldn’t be a student forever, I wanted the next best thing.

In 2008, I got my first classroom, teaching middle school dance in Boston Public Schools. The work was more impossible than I could have imagined. I was young, white, ignorant, an outsider in the community, and a foot shorter than some of my students (all the makings for a TV movie). I was also a really bad teacher.

Me as a baby teacher. I was terrible, but my students were amazing. Also, I had a chalkboard. Like an actual blackboard. Please let’s fund schools better.

In fact, I was a really bad teacher for the first several years. It’s one of the strange twists on the journey of an educator. We’re pretty terrible at this work until one day, we’re not.

Fifteen years later, I’m relieved to say I got a lot better. More than that, teaching morphed into one of the great love affairs of my life - full of break-ups, make-ups, tears on the bathroom floor, and full-body, inexplicable joy. When I say I love my students, it’s with a kind of loyalty I struggle to frame with words. They are part of me. Our lives are forever intertwined. I not-so-secretly hope to officiate their weddings someday.

The decision to step away from something I love was made carefully after many of my own Mom Time Outs. Still, I find it difficult to explain.

What’s hard but true: I was overstimulated. If ADHD were a common cold, I felt mine morphing into a bad case of pneumonia after all the sensory input each day. At home, I would close the door to my room, turn off the lights, and insist no humans interact with me (for everyone’s well-being). I was desperate to hear the inside of my own brain (were there important thoughts happening somewhere in there? Did anyone live in there anymore?).

It’s no secret that the state of public education is, well, perilous. The demands on educators seem to increase in direct correlation to decreased support. Even after the upheaval of the pandemic, there’s a real reluctance to reimagine the institution and throw away what’s not working. As a creative, it was maddening to feel trapped in that bureaucracy. As a parent, I’m terrified of the repercussions for this generation of kiddos.

I was living with a lot of guilt, giving my own two kids a fraction of what I was giving others. For my students, I was inventive and happy to play. At home, I went apeshit if someone even suggested pulling out paints or a hot glue gun. I had nothing left to give at the end of the day. And that wasn’t fair.

What’s easier (and more hopeful) to explain: Something else was begging for my attention. My writing.

For the past two years, I’ve been working on a novel that’s close to home. It’s about teaching. It’s about community. It’s about how we struggle to understand the people next to us. And about how we fail on the path to trying to become a good person. Oh, and there’s a missing child involved.

Vague enough? Ha. That’s how it goes when you’re a writer in the middle of a messy and difficult project and you’re keeping it close to heart. I was the same way with my memoir and I’ll probably always be closed-lipped about projects in progress. Still, it’s important to stay connected along the way, which brings me here:

1. Once a teacher, always a teacher

I’m imagining this Substack as a new kind of classroom - a space for lifelong learners. From honing the craft of writing to building routines for a creative life, this is a space to support growth. I’ll share insight from the publishing world, prompts for fellow writers, and, of course, expertise from the education field. OH. And book recommendations. Lots of those.

2. A place to connect & keep growing

To get good at something, we need communities of folks who are also trying to get good at the same thing. This is a place to authentically connect with fellow writers, creatives, and educators. I’ll get real about my stumbling blocks and together we’ll celebrate mistakes (a defining mission in my real classroom).

3. What that looks like

Subscribers can expect a weekly post on Tuesdays with some optional homework (refer back to the “once a teacher, always a teacher” statement). I promise not to bombard you more than that.

4. Let’s do this!

I’m looking forward to diving in, as both student and teacher, to share progress, learn about your projects, and grow together with you in this new space. Questions? Just raise your hand.

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