I’m not religious. I don’t believe in one religion, nor do I believe in one God.

But I believe in something. Just not in any traditional way that religion has been organized over the course of human existence.

Religion has always fascinated me. I took enough classes on religion in college to probably have received a minor. Buddhism, Islam, Christianity, Judaism, Hinduism— I’m read up on most. (Spoiler- yes, they are all pretty dang similar).

I strongly believe in our right to practice religion freely. Some of my favorite people in the world are religious and I commend them for their servitude.

I know religion offers comfort, connection, and purpose to the lives of those who are most devout. To me, that can be extremely beautiful. I want people to live with love and purpose and curiosity and with a drive that is bigger than them, bigger than self. The principles of so many religions are beautiful (and common sense?). Love thy neighbor, treat others as you would like to be treated, duty to help others— essentially have a moral compass that is steered with compassion and the belief in something bigger than yourself.

I also am not naive to think every person who is religious looks at it that way, nor practices it as such. Religion can be used as a scapegoat, a default, it can obviously also be extremely harmful. But the point of this post isn’t to critique the dangers and harm that religion has savaged our world with, the point is to highlight what I am taking from its many trials and tribulations and using as an anchor in my own (borderline) atheist life.

Sunday Church.

I was on my yoga mat this past Sunday when I was hit with a wave of I NEED MORE OF THIS. Not just yoga, but connection. It was a hammer of, “more joy, more noticing please”.

In essence, it was a reminder and a wakeup of I want to start reconnecting with joy. I want to use Sundays as a time to do something that is going to be make me a better person. Yes, a better mom, teacher, friend, partner. But mostly just a better person— plain and simple. For me- this doesn’t involve sitting in a building and worshipping scripture (that many of its followers don’t actually follow or practice) but instead it involves action.

My Sunday church could be a morning surf. A yoga class. A charity run. A hike. Reading a book that expands my worldview. Connecting with friends and family.

I’d love for every day to involve these things— and many of them do. But I’ll admit there is something that feels sacred about Sundays. An ending of one week and the beginning of the next. The day itself holds duality and nuance. Two of my favorite nouns.

Maybe that’s what I’m searching for: a practice of making something sacred without needing to call it God.

I think we’ve—myself included— become really good at filling our days and really bad at honoring them.

I have found this chapter of my life one that consists of never ending lists. Before I had my daughter, I thought my lists were endless. LOL. I loved that naivety. With a kid— that lists has quadrupled. But regardless of your current life chapter, it seems that there’s always something to do. Laundry. Groceries. Emails. Lesson plans. The weird pile of shit sitting on the counter that has somehow become a permanent fixture of the house. We optimize and schedule and scroll and squeeze one more thing into the hour before bedtime. And then we wake up and do it again.

Joy becomes something we assume will find us somewhere in that list. But to me, that’s the problem. I am a firm believe that joy isn’t something that just happens to us. Maybe, like religion, it needs ritual.

Not rules. Not doctrine. Not someone telling me what I’m supposed to believe.

Ritual. Something I return to because I have decided it matters.

There’s a reason humans have created rituals for thousands of years. There is something grounding about stopping whatever else we are doing and saying: this deserves my attention.

That’s what I want Sunday church to be: a deliberate interruption.

I (we) need a few hours where productivity isn’t the point. Where I don’t need to accomplish anything or make anything or post anything or improve anything. Where the metric for whether I spent my time well is simply: Did this make me feel more human?

Did I move my body? Did I notice where I was? Did I learn something? Did I laugh? Did I connect with someone I love? Did I do something kind? Did I experience awe? Did I leave the day a little more curious, compassionate, grounded, or alive than I entered it?

That feels spiritual to me.

I believe that is the part of religion I’ve always been drawn to—not necessarily the answers, but the insistence that we should occasionally stop asking what we need to get done and start asking how we want to live.

I don’t need to believe there is one divine being orchestrating all of this to believe that life itself is pretty fucking miraculous.

The ocean is miraculous. Watching my daughter become a person in real time is miraculous. Our bodies healing themselves is miraculous. Love is miraculous. Laughing so hard with someone that you can’t breathe is miraculous. Standing somewhere beautiful and realizing how unbelievably small you are is miraculous.

I don’t need to know why any of it exists to treat some of it like it’s holy.

I think that’s where joy comes in.

Not happiness. Not pretending everything is good. Not toxic positivity dressed up in a cute font.

Joy. The deepest kind.

The kind that can exist alongside grief and exhaustion and anger and uncertainty. The kind you can find in the middle of a life that is complicated and unfair and occasionally completely fucking exhausting.

The kind you have to notice and practice and choose.

So I’m going to church on Sundays.

Sometimes it’ll look like paddling into the ocean before everyone else is awake. Sometimes it’ll be yoga. Sometimes a long walk with my family. Sometimes reading on the couch. Sometimes doing something useful for someone who needs it. Sometimes sitting outside with coffee and doing absolutely nothing productive at all.

There will be no dress code. No sermon. No required reading. No promise that I’ll become enlightened. Certainly no judgement of others.

Just a small commitment to step outside the machinery of my life once a week and remember that being alive is not the same thing as being productive.

Maybe that’s prayer. Maybe it’s mindfulness. Maybe it’s just paying attention. I don’t really care what we call it. I just know I want to keep practicing it.

So, my Sunday church isn’t about figuring out what I believe— its’s about making sure I live like I believe this life is worth noticing.

Regardless of your practices, religion, or beliefs— I want to know..

What’s your Sunday Church routine?

Except all of the sudden, I wasn’t.

I quickly learned that “teaching English” wasn’t even half of it, and when I realized how different the reality was from my expectations— I felt jaded. I felt frustrated. I felt burned out… and I was only a year or two in.

In realizing my classroom was a container for more than analyzing literature— I was expected (not even from my admin, but definitely from myself) to teach students how to communicate, regulate emotions, resolve conflict, manage anxiety, navigate friendships, think critically, recover from failure, persevere through challenges, collaborate with others, and somehow still make sure everyone understood Shakespeare— I felt overwhelmed.

The problem in this overwhelm wasn’t that I didn’t deem any of it unimportant. In fact, the opposite— it all felt essential. I believe as educators, there is a deep knowing about the psychology behind learning. We know that students only learn when they feel safe, seen, loved, and supported. We know that— so the problem wasn’t what teachers were being asked to do. After a year or two, I started to understand the assignment. The problem was that very few of teachers were being prepared to do it.

Spoiler, but not so spoiler— education has changed and our students have changed, because the world has changed. Yet much of the way we prepare and support teachers still assumes classrooms look the way they did twenty years ago. Even then, if we have people on board with looking at what the reality is today, it becomes another thing to add to the gargantuan task it is to be an educator.

Today’s educators are navigating increasing mental health needs, rising anxiety, technology that evolves faster than curriculum, widening academic gaps, and classrooms that are more diverse—in every sense of the word—than ever before.

We’re asking teachers to become relationship builders, mentors, counselors, behavior specialists, technology coaches, curriculum designers, community organizers, and emotional anchors— and then we wonder why burnout is so common. But here’s the catch. I do believe that that IS our work to do. That is the modern day classroom. So what do we do about it?

This realization has shaped both my doctoral research and my own classroom practice.

My dissertation explores teacher preparedness for social-emotional learning—how educators are equipped (or not equipped) to meet students’ social and emotional needs.

But somewhere along the way, my work became about something even bigger.

It’s not just about SEL. It was never just about SEL (my hope in saying that is to catch the eye of all the SEL nay-sayers).

The real focus of my work is about JOY.

Yes, it’s about preparing teachers for the classrooms they actually have because I will die on the hill that social-emotional learning isn’t another initiative to squeeze into an already overflowing schedule, it’s the foundation that makes everything else possible. We know this because it’s scientifically proven that students learn best when they feel safe, teachers teach best when they feel supported, neither can flourish when schools are operating in survival mode— I am not here to convince you of that.

I am here to remind you (and give you strategies) to have JOY in your classroom and in your life. That is where education goes from learning Shakespeare, to preparing teachers and students to live a purposeful life.

I understand this requires a mindset shift. For years, professional development has often focused on giving teachers more. More strategies. More initiatives. More programs. More expectations.

Rarely do we ask a different question:

How do we help teachers experience more joy?

I am not talking about the kind of joy that comes from an inspirational quote taped to the staff lounge refrigerator, or due to that extra happy hour drink on Friday at 4 pm. I am talking about the kind of joy that comes from feeling prepared. Feeling connected. Feeling capable. Feeling like you can leave work with something left for yourself and your family.

Joy isn’t the opposite of rigor. It’s what makes rigor sustainable.

The workshop I’ve been building isn’t simply about implementing SEL or teaching you mindfulness strategies.

It’s about reimagining what it means to support educators in modern schools. Yes, we’ll talk about research (shameless plug- maybe even my own!) Yes, we’ll explore practical strategies. Yes, we’ll examine how social-emotional learning can transform classrooms.

But underneath all of that is a bigger question: How do we help teachers fall back in love with teaching?

Because when teachers are well, classrooms change. When classrooms change, school culture changes. And when school culture changes, students don’t just achieve more. They belong more.

I keep returning to one sentence that has become the heartbeat of my work:

So, the classroom has changed… have we?

It’s not meant as criticism— quite the opposite. That question is filled with so much curiosity, love, admiration, and dare I say— GRACE (sorry, I had to).

That question is an invitation to rethink how we prepare educators, wow we support them, how we define effective teaching, how we measure success, and how we build schools where people—not just performance—matter. Perhaps the future of education isn’t about asking teachers to do more, perhaps it’s about preparing them better. Perhaps it’s about remembering that before we teach content, standards, or assessments... we teach humans.

Let me end with one (or two) more question(s): If every interaction shapes school culture, doesn't that make every educator a leader… and if that’s the case— what if the most important leadership happening in a school isn't taking place in the principal's office, but inside every classroom?

I want to tie the idea of bringing JOY back into our lives, to the idea of leadership. When people hear the word leader, they often picture principals, superintendents, or district administrators. But my doctorate is in Organizational Change and Leadership, and one of the greatest lessons I’ve learned is that leadership isn’t a title, it’s influence. Every adult in a school shapes its culture. Every interaction, every relationship, every classroom, every difficult conversation sends a message about who belongs, what matters, and how we care for one another, and whether we realize it or not, every teacher is leading (for better or for worse).

That perspective has changed the way I think about professional learning. Preparing teachers isn’t simply about giving them better instructional strategies; it’s about developing leaders who can create the conditions where learning, belonging, and well-being thrive. Organizational change doesn’t begin in boardrooms or strategic plans—it begins in classrooms, one relationship at a time. It is truly my believe that every educator has the ability to influence the culture around them, and when enough people lead with intention, entire schools begin to change.

That’s the real work ahead of us. I promise I am not trying to ask teachers to become superheroes, I am not adding one more initiative to an already overflowing plate, but instead I am hoping to remind and recognize teachers for what they already are: leaders of people. Yes, there is responsibility in that— but even more important it requires joy.

The future of education won’t be shaped solely by new curriculum, technology, or policy. It will be shaped by the adults who choose to lead with empathy, curiosity, courage, and humanity (for ALL of our students).

After all, before we teach content, standards, or assessments, we teach humans, and humans flourish when the adults leading them do, too.

The greatest investment we can make in students is investing FIRST in the people who teach them.

The classroom has changed. Our students have changed. The world has changed. The question is no longer whether education needs to evolve, the question is:

Have we?

If you’ve ever looked at buying a home, and subsequently the conversation of schools follows it, you’ve probably heard some version of this:

“The schools are amazing.”

Or maybe:

“Don’t buy there. The schools aren’t very good.”

Those statements are often accepted without question. They influence where families spend hundreds of thousands of dollars, how neighborhoods become segregated, and how parents evaluate their own children’s futures.

Recently, I was speaking with a friend’s mother. We were talking about the neighborhood we bought in and she goes, “The only bummer is, I don’t think the schools are very good there!” Which really put me on the spot of feeling defensive not only because it is where my daughter will attend public school, but it is also where I teach. The irony is the neighborhood I am currently in is considered “better” than the neighborhood I use to teach in (which is again, a nuanced conversation and one that I can address in another post).

I wasn’t upset with her comment. I have been in the education field for a decade now and have read, studied, explored, and experienced this very phenomenon— what makes a school “good”. Her comment comes from a place of inaccuracy, entitlement, and lack of education— none of that entirely her fault— but one I hoped to help correct with a little conversation.

So, when we talk about good schools— many of use aren’t talking about academics (even when we think we are).

Here’s the fine print:

Many of us aren’t actually evaluating schools. We’re evaluating income. We’re evaluating race. We’re evaluating test scores that closely mirror both. And while none of that is entirely meaningless, it’s also not the whole story, not even close.

So yes, recently I’ve found myself asking the same question, this time from not just the lens of an educator, but as a parent: What actually makes a school “good”?

The answer is far more complicated—and far more hopeful—than many of us have been led to believe.

The Myth We Rarely Question (But Is Detrimental To Our Communities)

For decades, parents have relied on school rankings, standardized test scores, and neighborhood reputations to determine school quality. I get it. It’s a fast and easy data point to access.

The problem?

Those measures are highly correlated with the socioeconomic makeup of the student body.

Educational researchers have repeatedly found that standardized achievement scores are among the strongest reflections of family income and parental educational attainment—not necessarily instructional quality or student IQ (Reardon, 2011; Coleman et al., 1966). This means that when a school is labeled “excellent,” what we’re often seeing is a concentration of students who arrived with greater advantages before they ever walked through the classroom door.

Stable housing. Food security. Healthcare. Access to books. Summer enrichment. Private tutoring. Lower rates of chronic stress. Parents with flexible work schedules.

These advantages matter enormously. But/and they are not created by the school itself.

We’re Often Mistaking a Social Problem for a School Problem

When people describe schools as “good” or “bad,” they’re often talking about outcomes that schools did not create.

A school’s average test scores, graduation rates, or college acceptance numbers are influenced not only by what happens inside the classroom, but also by what students bring with them when they walk through the doors each morning.

Children do not leave poverty, housing instability, food insecurity, limited healthcare, community violence, or chronic stress at the school gates. Nor do they leave behind the advantages of financial security, stable housing, private tutoring, summer enrichment programs, access to books, reliable internet, or parents with flexible work schedules.

Schools inherit these realities—they don’t create them.

This is one of the most important distinctions we fail to make in conversations about education.

When affluent schools consistently outperform lower-income schools, it is tempting to conclude that one school is simply “better.” BUT decades of research suggest that much of what we’re observing is the cumulative effect of socioeconomic inequality, not a simple measure of instructional quality. Educational outcomes are deeply intertwined with factors like income, neighborhood segregation, access to healthcare, environmental stress, and family resources. In other words, what looks like an education problem is often a reflection of a much larger societal one.

That doesn’t mean schools don’t matter. They absolutely do. Exceptional teachers, effective leaders, and positive school cultures can profoundly shape students’ lives. In fact, schools can serve as powerful protective factors that help buffer the effects of adversity.

But we should be careful not to confuse correlation with causation.

A school serving predominantly affluent families is not automatically excellent simply because its students earn high test scores. Likewise, a school serving students from historically marginalized or low-income communities is not inherently failing because its averages are lower. Those numbers often tell us as much about the opportunities available outside of school as they do about what happens inside it.

Perhaps the better question isn’t, “Why are these schools so different?”

It’s, “Why are children’s opportunities so different before they ever arrive at school?”

That shifts the conversation from blaming educators or families to examining the systems that shape children’s lives: affordable housing, healthcare, living wages, early childhood education, transportation, neighborhood investment, and equitable school funding.

In other words, if we truly want “better schools,” we cannot limit the conversation to schools alone. Education reflects society. It does not exist apart from it. Until we address the inequities that children carry into classrooms each day, we will continue to mistake the symptoms for the cause.

What Research Actually Says

One of the most famous educational studies ever conducted, the Coleman Report (1966), reached a conclusion that remains influential nearly sixty years later:

Family background consistently explained more variation in student achievement than school resources alone. Subsequent research has refined and refocused that finding, but the central message has remained remarkably consistent. Harvard economist Sean Reardon has shown that the achievement gap between high-income and low-income students has grown substantially over the past several decades, largely because affluent families invest increasing amounts of time and money into educational opportunities outside of school (Reardon, 2011). This factor alone reminds us that the schools themselves aren’t necessarily the entities that needs to be heavily scrutinized as good or bad. It’s what comes before and after school— and THAT is a much harder, stickier conversation.

Developmental psychologist Urie Bronfenbrenner’s ecological systems theory reminds us that children develop within interconnected environments, with family serving as the most immediate and influential context for learning and development. Schools matter. Teachers matter. But they are only one piece of a much larger ecosystem.

The Number One Predictor Isn’t the School

Parents often ask:

“What’s the best school?”

But let me remind you that research suggests a better question:

“What kind of home environment am I creating?”

At first glance, that statistic can feel uncomfortable. It can sound like we’re saying children’s success rests solely on parents’ shoulders. That isn’t exactly what the research says, nor is it what I believe— but yes, it is a part of the equation.

Families do not all begin from the same starting line.

Some parents have flexible work schedules, reliable transportation, financial stability, access to healthcare, paid leave, safe neighborhoods, quality childcare, and the time and emotional bandwidth to be deeply involved in their children’s education. Others are working multiple jobs, navigating housing insecurity, language barriers, discrimination, chronic stress, or simply trying to make ends meet. Those realities are not individual failures—they are the result of broader social, economic, and policy decisions that shape opportunities long before a child enters a classroom.

Socioeconomic advantage creates more opportunities for the kinds of interactions that research shows support children’s development. It isn’t that affluent parents love their children more or are inherently “better” parents; it’s that many have greater access to the time, resources, and stability that make those interactions easier to provide consistently.

Even so, researchers continue to find that the quality of relationships matters across income levels. Children benefit when trusted adults read with them, talk with them, establish predictable routines, encourage curiosity, respond to emotions with empathy, model problem-solving, and communicate that learning is about growth—not just grades.

These aren’t expensive interventions, they’re relational ones. Beyond academics, decades of resilience research remind us that even one stable, caring adult can profoundly shape a child’s trajectory despite significant adversity (Masten, 2014). I find that hopeful.

Not because it means families alone are responsible for children’s outcomes—they aren’t. Schools, communities, and public policies all play critical roles in creating equitable opportunities. But it does remind us that while we should continue advocating for better schools and more just systems, we should never underestimate the quiet power of everyday relationships. The moments we spend listening, reading, encouraging, and simply showing up matter more than any school ranking could ever capture.

It should not come as a surprise to use when we say that children thrive the most when adults:

• Read with them.

• Talk to them often.

• Set consistent routines.

• Encourage curiosity.

• Respond to emotions rather than dismiss them.

• Model problem-solving.

• Value learning over grades.

  SPOILER all of the above are facets of social-emotional learning. There is my shameless plug for the research I conducted for my dissertation about the importance of SEL in schools. Just saying. Social emotional learning supports academic outcomes (Monroe, 2026). Cool that I can cite my own research now. Anyway, I digress.

But Yes, Schools Still Matter

Now laying the foundation of what truly matters about a child's education is important, but back to the actual school conversation: Acknowledging the importance of family should never become an excuse to ignore educational inequities.

Schools absolutely matter. There are schools who provide better resources, instruction, extracurricular, etc. We know that excellent teachers change lives. Strong principals create healthy cultures. Access to counselors, arts, athletics, special education, advanced coursework, and mental health supports all influence student outcomes. The quality of relationships inside a building matters.

Students deserve safe classrooms. They deserve competent instruction. They deserve teachers who believe in them. Research on school climate consistently shows that students perform better academically and socially when they feel physically and emotionally safe, experience strong relationships with adults, and feel a sense of belonging (Thapa et al., 2013). YADA YADA YADA— WE KNOW THIS.

These things matter enormously. They’re just harder to measure than test scores. And they aren’t always the first thing we discuss when talking about what zip code we should live in in order for our child to go to a “good school”.

The Problem With Chasing Prestige

Sometimes, in pursuit of the “best” school, families unintentionally sacrifice the very things children need most. Long commutes. Parents working longer hours to afford a particular ZIP code. Less family time. Higher stress. Greater pressure. More competition. Less sleep.

Ironically, many of the factors that support healthy development become casualties of trying to access a prestigious school.

Meanwhile, children attending less affluent schools can flourish because they have supportive teachers, involved parents, meaningful friendships, and a strong sense of belonging.

I’ve taught students accepted into Ivy League universities from schools many families would never consider.

I’ve also taught students in highly ranked schools who were overwhelmed by anxiety, disconnected from learning, and deeply unhappy.

School rankings rarely tell either story.

So... What Makes a Good School?

Maybe we’ve been asking the wrong question.

Instead of asking:

“Is this a good school?”

Perhaps we should ask:

• Do teachers know my child?

• Is my child emotionally safe?

• Are students challenged while also supported?

• Do families feel welcomed?

• Are relationships prioritized?

• Does the school believe every child can learn?

• Will my child have opportunities to belong?

Those questions get much closer to what children actually experience every day.

The Fine Print

Parents naturally want to give their children every possible advantage. I understand that instinct. I feel it, too. But somewhere along the way, we’ve confused affluence with excellence. We’ve confused demographics with quality. We’ve confused reputation with reality. A school’s average test score tells us something. It does not tell us everything. Children are not averages. They’re individuals.

Most importantly, the research offers something both humbling and hopeful:

The conversations around your dinner table...

The books you read together...

The way you respond after a hard day...

The emotional safety you create at home...

Those moments shape a child’s future in ways that no school ranking ever could.

Schools matter.

Teachers matter.

Communities matter.

But perhaps the greatest educational investment we can make isn’t buying into the “right” ZIP code. It’s building a home where curiosity is celebrated, mistakes are safe, relationships come first, and learning is woven into everyday life.

That may not improve a school’s ranking.

But it just might change a child’s life… and isn’t that we are all in the business to do?

Next Week in The Fine Print...

If school rankings and neighborhood reputations don’t tell the whole story, then how should parents evaluate a school?

In the next article, we’ll unpack what actually matters when choosing a school—from school climate and teacher retention to student belonging, extracurricular opportunities, leadership, and the questions every parent should ask before making one of the biggest decisions for their family.

Because if we’re going to move beyond the myth of the “good school,” we need better tools for recognizing the schools where children truly thrive.

References

Bronfenbrenner, U. (1979). The Ecology of Human Development. Harvard University Press.

Coleman, J. S., et al. (1966). Equality of Educational Opportunity. U.S. Department of Health, Education, and Welfare.

Fan, X., & Chen, M. (2001). Parental involvement and students’ academic achievement: A meta-analysis. Educational Psychology Review, 13(1), 1–22.

Henderson, A. T., & Mapp, K. L. (2002). A New Wave of Evidence: The Impact of School, Family, and Community Connections on Student Achievement.

Masten, A. S. (2014). Ordinary Magic: Resilience in Development. Guilford Press.

Monroe, M. I. (2026). Equipping Educators: Investigating Teacher Preparedness for Social-Emotional Learning in K–12 Classrooms (Doctoral dissertation, University of Southern California). USC Digital Library. https://digitallibrary.usc.edu/CS.aspx?VP3=DamView&VBID=2A3BXZ62WPJ3D&PN=1&DocRID=2A3BF1M2SQG7Z

Reardon, S. F. (2011). The widening academic achievement gap between the rich and the poor. In Whither Opportunity? Rising Inequality, Schools, and Children’s Life Chances.

Thapa, A., Cohen, J., Guffey, S., & Higgins-D’Alessandro, A. (2013). A review of school climate research. Review of Educational Research, 83(3), 357–385.

And after 3 years of learning, conducting research, and analyzing what true leadership looks like, I can safely say confidently that being a classroom teacher is one of the best places to harvest good leadership.

But let me zoom out of the classroom a bit and into the “regular” workforce.

There’s a version of leadership that many like to perform.

It looks polished. Decisive. Productive.
It lives in slide decks, strategic plans, and performance metrics.

It builds a bit of ego. To quote one of my professors— it’s a bunch of Type A assholes.

But then there’s the fine print.

The part no one writes down— but everyone feels.

There are leaders driven by power… and there are leaders guided by purpose.

So, let me speak to the latter.

• True leaders understand behavior before they try to manage it.

• True leaders know that outcomes are earned through people, not pressure.

• True leaders leave people better than they found them.

• True leaders don’t just fix systems—they fix the conditions people work within.

And important to note: you cannot lead people you do not actually see.

Not their titles.
Not their outputs.
Not the neat little summaries and resumes we sometimes reduce them to.

I mean really see them—

their histories,
their fears,
their capacity,
their becoming.

Because here’s the truth we don’t say out loud enough:

People don’t resist growth.
They resist environments that don’t feel safe enough to grow.

This is one of the most honest truths I have come to realize about learning, work environments, innovation, and leadership… and yes, in theory I learned it in my doctorate program, but I really learned it in the classroom.

My main thing (the part everything else hangs on)

If you strip away the noise, the strategy, the systems—
Before outcomes. Before performance. Before metrics.

True leaders build capacity.

A dysregulated system cannot produce regulated outcomes.
A disconnected organization cannot create real engagement.

And most simply and more relatable to my day to day:

A dysregulated adult cannot regulate a dysregulated child.
And a dysregulated child cannot learn.

That’s not just a classroom truth. That’s a leadership truth.

What we call outcomes are simply the byproducts of how well we’ve developed and supported the humans responsible for them. Every result we measure is a reflection of the people inside the system—their capacity, their regulation, their sense of support—and the conditions we’ve created for them to grow.

We keep trying to optimize systems while ignoring the humans running them, and then wonder why nothing changes. But outcomes don’t break down on spreadsheets… they break down in people. When individuals have the skills to regulate, reflect, and relate, everything else—performance, learning, collaboration—has somewhere to land.

You don’t fix results solely by tightening systems; you fix results by strengthening the people within them. Because when people grow, everything else moves with them and when they’re underdeveloped or unsupported, no amount of pressure, policy, or performance management will produce what they were never equipped to sustain.

Leadership is not about control. It’s about conditions.

Not control. Not charisma. Not authority.

Conditions.

The kind where people (and in my case— students) feel:

• psychologically safe

• emotionally supported

• intellectually challenged

• deeply valued

When people believe they are capable and supported, they show up differently.

They take risks. They persist. They try again.

What my own research reveals is that self-efficacy isn’t just a mindset, it’s a condition shaped by experience.

And organizations that prioritize relationships and emotional well-being?
They don’t just feel better—they perform better.

Real leaders regulate themselves before trying to lead others.

And honestly?

I didn’t need the research to believe it (although by all means, check out my dissertation where all of the research and literature is laid out for you).

I’ve lived it. We all have.

I’ve watched teachers stay—not because the job got easier, but because someone made it feel sustainable.

I’ve watched students change—not because the curriculum improved, but because someone believed they could.

How I lead (or at least, how I try to)

I don’t lead by constantly raising expectations (yes, rigor is important don’t come for me).

But first— I lead by building environments.

Spaces where:

• reflection is normal

• mistakes are part of the process

• emotional awareness is treated like a skill, not a liability

• growth belongs to everyone, not just the high performers

I’m not interested in leading from the front.

I’m interested in leading within.

Alongside.
In conversation.
In curiosity.

I ask more questions than I answer.
I listen before I direct.
I try to model what I expect.

Because leadership isn’t something you perform, it’s something you practice. Daily, imperfectly, in real time.

The classroom taught me this. Now I want to scale it.

Into systems.
Into teacher preparation programs.
Into leadership spaces that are ready to go deeper than surface-level change.

Because right now, too many systems are built on a quiet, unspoken strategy:

We can’t burn people out and then call it commitment.

I’m not interested in sustaining that.

I want to build students and leaders who:

• understand human behavior instead of just managing it

• respond to emotional needs instead of ignoring them

• create sustainability instead of extracting everything people have

The leader I’m becoming..

Not the loudest voice in the room (although I can be loud).

Not the one with the most answers (although if I don’t know something, let’s learn together).

I aim to be the one who creates space for others to speak, builds systems that don’t depend on me, and leaves people better than I found them.

Because to me, leadership isn’t about being followed. It’s about what continues
because of how you led.

The fine print (the part that actually matters)

If we teach the human, the outcomes will follow.
If we lead the human, the system will transform.

But if we ignore the human—

no strategy,
no initiative,
no reform

will ever be enough.

How will you choose to lead?

The “rise and grind.”
The glorification of 4 a.m. wake-ups.
The subtle (or not so subtle) suggestion that if you’re not constantly working, you’re falling behind.

And to be fair— some of that is toxic. But like a lot of things, the conversation has swung too far in the opposite direction. Somewhere along the way, hustle culture didn’t just get critiqued… it got flattened. Reduced to something inherently harmful. Something to reject entirely. And I don’t think that tells the full story.

Here’s the part we don’t talk about enough: Sometimes hustle isn’t toxic. Sometimes it’s necessary.

The Version of Hustle No One Posts About

Not all hustle looks like aesthetic morning routines and perfectly lit laptops.

Sometimes (maybe even most times) it looks like:

• Finishing grad school assignments after your baby finally falls asleep

• Answering emails in the cracks of your day

• Showing up to work, caregiving, and your own goals—simultaneously

• Building something quietly, without applause or visibility

• Doing what needs to be done because there isn’t another option

This version of hustle isn’t glamorous. It’s not curated. It doesn’t come with a matching set or a productivity hack. It’s rooted in responsibility, survival, and in commitment to something bigger than the moment.

And for many people—especially those navigating multiple roles (which spoiler- tends to be most of us), limited resources, or even systemic barriers… hustle isn’t a choice. It’s a bridge.

When Hustle Becomes Harmful

At the same time, we can’t ignore the very real harm that hustle culture can create when left unchecked.

Hustle turns toxic when productivity becomes your identity, rest feels like something you have to “earn”, you ignore your physical and emotional limits, you measure your worth by how much you produce, and you never arrive—there’s always more, faster, better (oof, how I have been there).

This is the version of hustle that disconnects you from yourself. The version that convinces you that slowing down is failure. This is the version that promises fulfillment but quietly replaces it with exhaustion. This version is when I usually burst into tears randomly on a Tuesday night but I can’t pinpoint WHY (and it was after a day of taking care of a baby, teaching teenagers, reading dense literature about research in my field, trying to workout, keep a social life, be a loving wife, daughter, friend, dog mom, and then I realize that the trash needs to be taken out to the curb and I just CANNOT).

The Overcorrection: Romanticizing Rest

So, in response, we’ve seen the rise of the “soft life.” Slow mornings. Boundaries. Rest as resistance. And again, there is so much truth and healing in that. I really try to practice little moments of slowness and mindfulness, daily.

But even this narrative, when taken to an extreme, can become incomplete.

Because rest alone doesn’t build the life you’re envisioning, slowness doesn’t eliminate responsibility, and opting out entirely isn’t realistic for many people.

You can value rest deeply and still need to work hard.

These things are not in opposition, and in fact truly might be the yin and yang of productivity and livelihood.

The Real Work: Learning When to Shift

What I’ve learned through teaching, motherhood, graduate school, and building a life in real time is this: Balance isn’t about choosing between hustle and rest.
It’s about knowing when to move between them.

Some seasons require more of you. More focus. More discipline. More structure.

Other seasons ask you to soften. To pause. To recalibrate. To come back to yourself, or maybe even become someone new.

The tension in these moments isn’t the problem, the lack of awareness is.

A More Honest Framework for Hustle

Instead of asking “Is hustle culture good or bad?”
Maybe the better question is:

“How am I relating to the effort that I am giving?”

Because effort, in itself, is not the issue.

It’s whether that effort is intentional or reactive, aligned or performative, sustainable or extractive.

What I am really trying to lean into is that hustle, when grounded, can look like showing up for your goals with clarity, creating structure that supports your life (not controls it), building momentum without abandoning your well-being, moving forward—even when it’s inconvenient (this can be hard one for my brain).

And again, not because you’re trying to prove something, but because you’re trying to build something.

The Integration We Actually Need

The goal isn’t to reject hustle and it’s definitely not to live in a constant state of rest (living in vacation mode permanently would be amazing, but it would also maybe lose its spark? I guess we will never know).

It’s to integrate both.

I personally aim to become someone who can work hard without losing themselves, rest without guilt, move quickly without rushing their life, and also sow down without falling into avoidance

This is where, for me, alignment lives. Not in the extremes, but in fully raw, transparent awareness.

The Fine Print

Hustle culture isn’t inherently toxic.

But it’s also not inherently noble.

It’s a tool.

And like any tool, its impact depends on how (and why) you use it, because the real goal was never just to get things done because they exist on your checklist or because you’re trying to keep up with the Joneses. The goal is to build a life that actually feels good to live.

And that, my hustly friend, requires both:

The discipline to show up.
And the wisdom to step back.

What I noticed is that before you become a parent, and even once you ARE a parent, people talk about parenting as if it’s a formula (especially the online world).

Sleep schedules. Feeding methods. Developmental milestones. Parenting strategies and hacks. Wake windows. Attachment styles.

There are books, podcasts, experts, influencers, pediatricians, psychologists, and strangers in grocery store aisles who all seem to have a *system*.

A right way. A best way. *A way.*

But through no fault other than my own fumbling, I am finally coming to terms with that fact that motherhood—like life—doesn’t follow formulas. Which should THRILL this anti-math, go with the flow gal (spoiler: what it really did was just cause me anxiety?! cool).

So instead of me giving you advice through this online forum, adding to the noise of what you should and shouldn’t be doing (as if I could deem myself an expert with just one child under a year old), let me keep is basic and novice (although I do feel technically correct):

If parenting teaches you anything quickly, it’s this: **one size does not fit all.**

Not for babies. Not for mothers. Not for families. Not for dogs.

And yet, our culture desperately wants it to.

The Myth of the Universal Baby

As I slowly have admitted to myself that I cannot podcast my way into teaching my baby to sleep perfectly at every nap, it is a hard reality to accept when the internet loves universal advice.

“Babies should nap X times a day for X number of minutes/ hours”. LOL. HOURS?!

“Babies should sleep through the night by X months.”

“If you do this, your baby will….”

But babies are not software programs. If they were my baby (who is entirely the reason for my existence now) would have been set at “demonic experiment” for first 5 months of her life. (that factory setting quickly flipped a switch around 5.5 months and we are so grateful to now say she is set at the “happy chunk” setting and let me tell you, it is MUCH better).

Here is the thing (which should be common sense, but a lot of my common sense left the minute I became a mother). Babies are entire human beings with different temperaments, nervous systems, sensitivities, and rhythms.

Some babies are easy sleepers. Some fight sleep like it’s a competitive sport.

Some are highly sensitive to noise and light. Others could nap through a marching band.

Some need constant physical closeness. Others are content exploring independently.

And none of these differences are moral or have to do with your style, that book you read, or the reel you watched.

It is simply human variation.

One of the quiet shocks of motherhood is realizing how early individuality begins. Personality isn’t something that magically appears in adulthood. It’s there from the start. It is in the way a baby reacts to stimulation, seeks comfort, tolerates frustration, or engages with the world.

Which means parenting quickly becomes less about control and more about attunement. Learning your specific child. Not the internet’s child. Not the book’s child. Not the podcasts child. Your child.

Motherhood as a Microcosm for Life

As I am approaching the end of my first year of mothering and parenting, slowly dragging myself out of PPD, PPA, and PPWTFWT (post-partum what the f*** was that)— I am noticing a few things.

Parenting ends up being a strange mirror for the rest of existence.

Life rarely gives us identical circumstances. Yet we are constantly surrounded by people insisting that their path is the path (and only for the affordable cost of $290 a month if you subscribe now— your baby will be sleeping perfectly in 2 weeks! Don’t you want that MAMA!?)

This culture tells us that the diet that works for them should work for everyone.

Motherhood is a lot of things, but what I actually am learning to love the most is that motherhood exposes how fragile that assumption is.

Because if you put five babies in the same room, raised by the same parents, following the same routines, you will still get five different outcomes.

Temperament matters. Environment matters. Timing matters. Randomness matters.

Parenting becomes a daily reminder that complex systems cannot be reduced to simple formulas and as we should know as our society embarks its way toward WW3… humans are perhaps the most complex system of all (or idk maybe there is some predictability? ugh).

My Personal Problem With Parenting Absolutism

If you spend even ten minutes in parenting spaces online, you’ll quickly notice something else: parenting advice is often delivered with extraordinary certainty.

People become deeply attached to particular approaches:

Sleep training versus no sleep training. Breastfeeding versus formula. Montessori versus traditional play. Gentle parenting versus structured discipline. And these choices often become polarized and moralized.

Parents are praised or criticized as if they are making declarations about their character rather than navigating complicated, real-life situations… and here’s an uncomfortable truth that I have learned to sit with (sometimes against my will):

Most parents are simply trying to solve the puzzle of their specific child in their specific circumstances.

• The family with a high-needs baby, two working parents, and limited support will make different decisions than the family with a flexible schedule and extensive help.

• The parent managing postpartum anxiety may approach sleep differently than the parent who thrives on flexibility.

• The baby who wakes every 40 minutes will shape a household differently than the baby who sleeps six-hour stretches.

Parenting decisions are rarely abstract philosophical positions. They are adaptive responses to reality.

HOWEVER Flexibility Is Not the Same as Relativism

At the same time, LET ME BE VERY CLEAR, acknowledging that families are different does not mean *anything goes*.

There is a temptation in modern parenting discourse to swing to the opposite extreme: if every baby is unique, then all choices must be equally valid. I’d love for that to be the case, but that case is the case the disregards psychology, science, and a little bit of dare I say the words: common sense.

We know a tremendous amount from psychology, neuroscience, and developmental research about what children need to thrive. We know that secure attachment matters (and no that doesn’t mean responding within .2394720395 milliseconds or you are screwed). We know that consistent caregiving matters. We know that emotional attunement matters. We know that chronic stress in early childhood can shape development.

Science cannot tell us exactly how every family should structure bedtime or feeding schedules.

But it does give us guardrails, a framework, and a backbone.

Science tells us that responsive caregiving supports brain development. That safe sleep practices reduce risk. That emotional regulation is learned through co-regulation. For me, the goal isn’t rigid adherence to parenting ideology. The goal is informed flexibility. For me, listening to science while still recognizing that real life is messy and chaotic is the real dance.

The (Not So) Quiet Work of Becoming a Mother

So, motherhood isn’t a formula, it isn’t mastered through your cousins’ friends’ 3 day online course, and/but/however science is also still very real. Woof. It is a lot to absorb. So let me add another thought I have had recently— let’s talk about YOU, Mom.

One of the less discussed parts of motherhood is that it doesn’t just change your life, it changes you. The cliche’s are true and so is the neuroscience. Motherhood is one of the most dramatic neurological transformations adults experience. Let’s geek out together for a sec.

Becoming a mother triggers one of the most significant neurological transformations adults experience, a transition researchers sometimes call matrescence. During pregnancy and postpartum, the brain actually restructures itself! Studies by neuroscientist Elseline Hoekzema show changes in gray matter in areas related to social understanding and emotional processing, making the brain more efficient at recognizing and responding to a baby’s needs. After birth, regions involved in emotion, reward, and threat detection (such as the amygdala and dopamine system) become highly sensitive to a baby’s cues, which helps explain why mothers can wake instantly to a cry. Hormones like oxytocin strengthen bonding and reinforce caregiving behaviors, while heightened vigilance helps protect infants from danger. Although many mothers report “mom brain,” research suggests this reflects cognitive reorganization rather than decline, with the brain prioritizing emotional awareness and caregiving sensitivity. So let me be clear— these changes are also shaped by experience, caregiving itself strengthens neural circuits over time, showing that the maternal brain remains highly adaptable as both parent and child grow together.

In layman’s terms: mothers are superhuman. But we knew that. ;)

For me this looks like my tolerance for uncertainty grows. My sense of control shrinks. My ability to hold competing truths expands. I can believe that routines are helpful while accepting that some days the routine collapses. I can believe in responsive parenting while also recognizing that you are sometimes exhausted, overwhelmed, or simply human. I am relearning to hold nuance.

I am learning to accept that good parenting is rarely about perfection. It’s about repair. It is about trying again tomorrow. It is about adjusting as your child grows. It is about recognizing that both you and your baby are constantly evolving.

The Fine Print

Motherhood comes with an enormous amount of advice. I am hoping that this doesn’t come off as just another article about motherhood— but instead a full a complete diary entry of my own that reminds you that you are not alone in navigating this other realm of existence.

For my own well being, I will highlight the fine print—the part that rarely makes it into the neat bullet lists:

There is no universal baby. There is no universal mother (except Mother Earth- hey girl, thank you, and also sorry). There is no universal path.

There are patterns, principles, and research-backed insights that help guide us. But there is also individuality, context, and instinct.

Parenting, like life, exists somewhere between structure and improvisation. Between science and experience. Between guidance and discovery.

And perhaps the real work of motherhood is learning to navigate that space and not by trying to find the one correct answer through @babymama101’s 4 week course.

In my eyes, motherhood (and humanhood) expands by becoming the kind of person who can hold complexity, adapt with humility, and keep showing up—again and again—for yourself OF COURSE, but also for the small, unfolding human in front of you.

Unless your human is still on “demonic experiment” settings— then godspeed.

:)

The fine print, and the part that I believe most people quietly agree on, is simple:
The path to citizenship in the United States should be clearer, faster, and more humane.

It’s no secret, although I feel sometimes people forget, that this country was founded on the fundamental right to emigrate. Furthermore, I believe most of us agree that when people are willing to work, contribute, and build a life here, our system should help them do that legally, not trap them in years of uncertainty (let alone fall victim to capitalism hustle culture but that can be a different substack post). Immigration has always been part of what makes this country strong, innovative, and economically resilient. That’s not even the fine print, that’s the big print. People deserve dignity and respect. Regardless of citizenship status.

The fine print is where things get distorted.

The Story That Some Are Telling (and Why It’s Wrong)

Conservative rhetoric often frames immigrants as criminals, threats, or burdens on society— the term “alien” for example. Not just used colloquially on Fox News, but intentionally. This narrative isn’t just inaccurate, it’s deeply inhumane.

The vast majority of immigrants come to the U.S. seeking safety, opportunity, and stability for their families and it is mind boggling to me that it hasn’t dawned on nearly half of our nation that treating them with suspicion and cruelty ignores their humanity and erases the real reasons people migrate in the first place.

Additionally, let’s set the scene: being undocumented is a civil violation, not a violent criminal offense— and please for the love of God, stop with the inaccurate anectodal stories. Let’s look at facts when talking about something as important as immigration.

In fact, let’s look at the facts:

• Immigrants are over 60% less likely to be incarcerated than U.S.-born citizens

• Immigrants, including undocumented immigrants, are arrested at significantly lower rates for violent, drug, and property crimes.

• Undocumented immigrants in Texas (where some of the most research is done on immigration) were arrested at less than half the rate of U.S.-born Texans for violent offenses

• Over 150 years of data show immigrants have consistently had lower incarceration rates than native-born Americans

• As immigration has increased, crime has declined

The data is clear. The fear is not.

When Anecdotes Replace Evidence

Political rhetoric often highlights isolated incidents, all of which become emotionally charged, tragic, and real. Those stories become the whole narrative. A deep flaw I see with political discourse on both sides. (I am raging liberal, but I can see fault where it is blatant).

Meanwhile, the larger truth gets buried:

• Cities and states with larger immigrant populations often have lower crime rates.

• Most people detained by ICE are not violent criminals. Many have no criminal record beyond immigration violations. Let me reiterate— “Illegal entry” is a civil offense — not a violent crime.

But fear is louder than facts and (as seen by this administration and the cult like support) fear is easier to sell.

I understand concerns about border security, public safety, and the rule of law, as do most. It is no secret that a functioning immigration system should be orderly, fair, and accountable. It should also be accessible and not one foaming at the mouth to incarcerate.

But mass arrests, family separation, and fear-based enforcement don’t solve these problems. They traumatize families. They destabilize communities. They push people further into the shadows. They make racists louder and violence the “answer”.

And ironically, this all makes everyone less safe.

If the goal is truly safety, stability, and economic strength, punishment isn’t the answer. Policy is. But policy that will actually make an impact is led and imbued with empathy.

So what do I suggest? (not just my thoughts, but what has been statistically backed by other countries and their immigration success stories). Streamlined legal pathways and accessible citizenship processes. Leadership that is grounded in facts and compassion isn’t “soft.” It’s smart.

America doesn’t need harsher crackdowns fueled by fear-based talking points.
It needs leadership rooted in evidence, dignity, and humanity. None of which we have seen.

Because the real fine print of this country has always been about possibility, not punishment. History seems to be repeating itself. The America Dream becomes an American Nightmare.

While we are at it, let’s look at the historical trends of the past 150+ years.

• Immigrants have had lower incarceration rates than U.S.-born citizens for over a century.

• The gap has grown wider in recent decades.

And another important note: Immigration and crime move in opposite directions.

• As immigration increased in the U.S., overall crime rates declined.

• Cities and states with larger immigrant populations often have lower crime rates.

Let me reiterate: Conservative claims usually rely on anecdotes, not actual data.

• Political rhetoric often focuses on isolated incidents, not national trends.

• Large-scale data does not support the idea that immigrants cause crime waves.

And finally, one of the more pressing issues right now? Most people detained by ICE are not violent criminals.

• Many detained individuals have no criminal record beyond immigration violations.

• “Illegal entry” is a civil offense, not a violent crime.

Again, I understand the concerns about border security, public safety, and the rule of law. A functioning immigration system should be orderly, fair, and accountable. But mass arrests, family separation, and fear-based enforcement do not solve these problems. They traumatize families, destabilize communities, and push people further into the shadows—making everyone less safe, not more.

The fine print of this conversation isn’t about borders. It’s about belonging. It’s about whether we see people as problems to be managed or as humans to be understood. It’s about whether our policies reflect fear — or the values we claim to stand for. Immigration has always been woven into the story of this country. Not as a threat, but as a source of resilience, innovation, and renewal. When we lead with facts, compassion, and clarity, we don’t lose our strength — we define it.

Because (to me) the real measure of a nation isn’t how harshly it can punish, but how humanely it can welcome.

Ps. I haven’t even scratched the surface on citizens being arrested, kidnapped, or murdered— that could be a whole other post. Stay safe, but stand in your morals and values. What side of history are you choosing to be on?

Noticing involves observation without immediately judging, fixing, or reacting; it is the gentle act of acknowledging that something is present.

There’s something sacred about the pause. The breath we take between who we were and who we are becoming. Lately, I’ve been thinking about how life isn’t only built in the big headlines, the degrees, the milestones, the accomplishments, but more-so in the quiet margins. The subtle shifts and realizations. The moments that don’t make it into captions or resumes. The things that couldn’t possibly be captured by pictures of words, so they live in memory, in your mind, in the noticing.

Noticing isn’t about performance or self-judgment. It’s not a scoreboard or a personal audit. To me, reflection is paying attention to your life with honesty, curiosity, and compassion. When we do that, we meet ourselves more fully. Not just the “roles” version of us — mother, teacher, partner, student, creator — but the human underneath.

And this past year, my humanness felt very alive in a way that honestly terrified me.

In April, I became a mother.
And everything, absolutely everything, expanded.

There were the obvious changes: sleepless nights, tiny fingers wrapped around mine, the constant recalibration of identity. But then there are the subtler transformations. I had a not so tender rewiring of everything: priorities changed, not in a simple way but in a world ending and being reborn kind of way, love became both softer and fiercer, the realization that life will never again be lived solely in relation to myself. Motherhood made the fine print louder. Motherhood made the noticing of life not a practice but a lifeline.

There is so much joy but also so much unlearning. So much surrender. So many days where the only reflection available was a deep breath whispered into a baby’s hair and the quiet acknowledgement: This is hard and this is holy.

This year wasn’t just about motherhood, it was also about continuing my work as an educator and researcher. I showed up in the classroom a new person, relearning my role as a teacher. I continued my doctoral work examining how we prepare teachers to meet the social-emotional needs of students. It’s research — but it’s also my heart. It’s about humanity inside institutions. It’s about asking: What does it mean to care for the people who care for children? What does it mean to care for our children? What systems do we need to set up and which do we need to burn?

And threaded through all of this was the work I’ve long been drawn to — mindfulness, healing, self-awareness. But here’s the truth I want to name openly:

Self growth work is not cute. And it is not easy.

It is lifelong, it is uncomfortable, and by golly it is nonlinear.

This year I have had to redefine growth. This year has been my realization that it is not about “up-leveling” into some shinier version of myself. Instead, most days, it looks like noticing my patterns, choosing differently (or not), trying again, apologizing, softening, forgiving, staying present, and letting go, sometimes (oftentimes) all at the same time.

Healing isn’t about finally becoming perfect. It’s about allowing realness.

And being real?
That’s work.

Why Noticing Matters

So why pause to reflect when the world tells us to keep going?

I’ve put in regular practice to this noticing work for over a decade now. I’ve kept nearly a dozen journals, I write, I read, I chat, I teach. I do all of it in the name of self growth and reflection. So what I’ve noticed the most is not that reflection heals, instead it reveals. Reflection gives shape to experience. It not only allows meaning to rise to the surface, it demands feelings arise as well. That is the tricky part- the sticky part- that is the part that can be the reason so many of us skip this kind of work, maybe even unknowingly. It reveals who we’re becoming beneath the noise. It can feel like we are lifting the bed skirt to find what monsters might lurk below.

So let me share some of my own noticings:

• noticing honors our effort — even the invisible kind
• noticing allows grief, joy, and complexity to coexist (spoiler: this can be immensely uncomfortable)
• noticing reminds us that growth can be slow, and that is okay
• noticing reconnects us to purpose
• noticing softens judgment into compassion
• noticing helps us choose direction with intention

Noticing isn’t about proving anything, for me it’s about learning how to listen.

Sometimes what we hear is beautiful.
Sometimes it’s miserable.
But all of it is information — and all of it belongs.

Reflection Without Perfection

When we look back, it’s easy to invite in the critic. It’s easy to even honor her as a the house speaker: You should have healed faster. You should have done more. You should be further along by now. Why can’t you do it all?

But as a teacher and a lover of a good rubric, let me remind you (as I remind myself) that reflection doesn’t need a grading rubric.

This year, I’m anchoring into questions that make space instead of pressure:

• What changed me and how?
• Where did I show courage that I didn’t know I had?
• What parts of me softened? Hardened? Why?
• What exhausted me and why? How much time do I dedicate toward that? Can that shift?
• What am I proud of that nobody else can see?
• What am I willing to grow toward?

What I am finding is that the answers don’t have to be profound. They just have to be honest.

Moving Forward, Gently

I don’t want the coming year to become another self-optimization challenge. Not to say I don’t have goals- I’ll admit it: I am a yoga and mindfulness teacher who sort of loves the rat race. I am not proud of that, but it’s in my blood. I ENJOY self-optimization. But what I am learning is that in order to survive this chapter of life, I need to redefine what that means to me and what that looks like. Yes, I aim to defend my dissertation and graduate with my doctorate. No, that isn’t my identity. Yes, I’d love to find myself thriving in a wellness space again. No, that isn’t my identity. Yes, I plan on being the best teacher that I can be. No, that isn’t my identity.

What I am realizing is that I don’t want to chase after some future version of myself who feels more worthy than the woman sitting here now — eyes tired, heart full, hands busy, soul stretching.

Instead, I want to keep noticing.

The baby giggles. The quiet insights. The loud cries (from me, the world, and my baby). The moments of regulation in the chaos. The moments of chaos, period. The students who surprise me. The parts of myself still healing. The questions that won’t leave me alone.

I want to move forward with purpose, presence, honesty.
I want to walk with compassion.
Breathe with more awe.
Live not to accomplish, but to experience.

So, one of my goals? To stop pretending that transformation is glamorous and instead allow for the reverence that is the work of becoming.

Because here’s what I think I know:

Life is asking us to be awake to the tiny sentences between the headlines, worldly, and inner.

The fine print matters.

And when we notice it, really notice it, reflection stops being an end-of-year ritual and becomes a way of being.

For me, all of this is a way of saying:

My life is worth paying attention to.
My inner world matters.
I am willing to meet myself as I am. Again and again and again.

Here’s to motherhood.
Here’s to growth that is slow and stubborn and sacred.
Here’s to noticing as an act of love.
And here’s to noticing the fine print — always.

However, there has been a conversation that happens quite frequently when my move is discussed that hasn’t been sitting right with me.

I am getting the comment, “Oh your new school must feel pretty different than your last!”

The way different is said is often paired with the tone and intonation of less diverse. But let’s be honest in our word choices— I am all for calling a spade a spade— they are referring to the fact that I now teach at a school with white students. It doesn’t matter that the school is still one that receives Title 1 funding, or that the majority of our students are Hispanic— the fact that this new school serves more white kids than my old school did seems to always bring up the ideas of diversity. The irony is not lost on me.

I am still learning how to navigate questions about the change. Does it feel different? How does it feel different? Are the students different or are kids just kids? It all feels fragile and complex, mostly because I always aim to speak in a way that disrupts the perpetuation of stereotypes. But saying “kids are kids” as if they are all the same reminds me a bit of saying, “I don’t see color”. The intent is equality, but the impact is erasure of identity and culture.

I say this for I believe that there is a quiet truth we don’t talk about enough in education: The language we use when describing kids shapes how we understand their potential. It shapes how we relate to them.

It shapes whether or not we would send our own kids to our neighborhood school.
And over time, it shapes how they come to understand themselves.

We throw words around casually—“disadvantaged,” “at-risk,” “behind,” “gifted,” “diverse,” even “rich kids.” But words are never neutral. They carry histories, baggage, and bias. Some of these labels echo decades of racist, classist, or deficit-based thinking, even when said with innocent intent. I will not claim to be perfect either, I have used these terms willy-nilly at times for the sake of conversation. But what I implore is to always explain where I am coming from in those labels and definitions in order to convey the nuance that comes with discussing student demographics and populations.

Even words spoken with good intentions can subtly shift how much we believe a child is capable of. “He comes from a tough background,” might sound empathetic, but it often becomes shorthand for soft expectations. “She’s so advanced for her age,” can signal pride while unknowingly pressuring a child to perform identity instead of develop it.

None of this means we avoid describing challenges or realities. Kids do face inequitable systems, and naming those systems is necessary. But there’s a difference between naming a condition and assigning an identity.
“Low-income” describes a context. “Low-achieving” assigns a ceiling.

What kids hear about themselves matters.
What teachers say to each other about kids matters.
What families internalize about their child’s label matters.
And what we, as a culture, normalize in our language matters most of all.

My take is this: when we label kids by circumstances, we imply something dangerous, that one group is the norm, and everyone else is an exception. A deviation. A problem to be managed and not a story to be told. I want the language we use one education to be real and honest, but also to ensure we are celebrating and supporting.

Being equity-minded doesn’t mean ignoring inequality or sugarcoating reality.
We should name systemic barriers. We should call out inequitable access. We should recognize the historical forces that shape students’ experiences.

But naming conditions is different from naming children. Call it “woke” but it isn’t that hard to change your rhetoric.

Let me be super clear, I know that many, if not nearly all educators mean well.
We use shorthand language because the day moves fast, because the data meeting is tomorrow, the email box is full, the students you teach and love can be A LOT and because that’s the language we inherited from decades of “accountability” talk.

But even well-meaning language can reinforce stereotypes or lower expectations simply by framing students through a deficit lens. And kids hear everything—spoken and unspoken. Labels stick. They travel from hallway whispers to grade-level meetings to permanent records to self-perception. Sometimes a label becomes a mirror a student never asked to look into.

What if we shifted our language in small, intentional ways?

Not to be performative or too woke (but also like… is that a bad thing?)
Not to avoid the truth.
But to try and tell the whole story.
The child is no longer the problem.
The system is.

At the heart of it, this is about dignity.
Every student’s story is layered, nuanced, and worthy of complexity. No single word—especially one rooted in deficit—can capture who they are or who they might become.

When we speak with care, we cultivate learning spaces where:

• Kids feel seen for their full identities

• Families feel respected, not scrutinized

• Educators hold high expectations grounded in possibility

• Systems become accountable, rather than students carrying the weight of systemic failures

It’s not about being “politically correct.” It’s about being humanly accurate.

Words can wound.
But they can also liberate.

I say this to allow discourse around my job relocation, to ensure that asking me about my school change doesn’t feel like it’s rooted in implicit bias or internalized classism or racism. I also ask to have real and honest conversations.

When we choose language that names inequities without naming kids as the inequity, we shift the narrative:

The problem is not the students.
The problem is the systems around them.

I must ask myself to be intentional and consistent in the changes I make in regard to how students see themselves and how we show up for them. I ask that you do the same.

Every young person deserves more than being a label, and that starts with the adults in their lives. So I leave you with this question: Is this language we use describing the child, or is it describing my perception of them? And does it expand their potential, or shrink it?

Sending love, empathy, and critical thinking <3

I know this space well. I’ve lived here for months.

The Bright-Sider’s Dilemma

I’ve always been a bright-sider—the one who can take a bad day and find the sliver of sun. I’m a gratitude list maker, a look at the sunset, the moon, the clouds. The coworker who smooths conflict. The student who grew into an adult who believed that if you look hard enough, you can always find something to be over the moon thankful for. I still do believe that.

Being a bright-sider is a beautiful trait—until it slowly becomes a trap.

Because when your identity is wrapped up in optimism, it becomes nearly impossible to acknowledge when that light flickers.

You don’t want to disappoint anyone. You don’t want to shatter the version of yourself others rely on. You don’t want to allow the reality of negative emotions outweigh the joy you also feel. You don’t want to admit that sometimes the light goes out.

The bright-sider in me whispers:
You’re just tired.
This is normal.
It’ll pass.
Don’t make it a big deal.
Someone would kill to have what you have—be grateful.

And the hardest part?
These thoughts don’t feel like denial. They feel like a responsibility.

I feel that I have built my life around being the optimistic one, the person who carries things lightly, the idea that I might be struggling feels like a betrayal to my identity, to the people who know you, to the story you’ve told yourself your whole life, to the story that has carried you this far.

But Motherhood didn’t dim my optimism—it exposed how much of it was armor.

The bright-side narrative can make it dangerously easy to bypass your own warning signs:

I tell myself,
“Look how lucky you are—your baby is healthy.”
“You should be grateful—so many women don’t get this.”
“You have support—so why can’t you do it?”

Gratitude becomes a shield, perspective becomes a muzzle, and the bright side becomes the only side I allow myself to acknowledge.

But what I am slowly allowing myself to understand is that ignoring my darkness doesn’t make it disappear, it just teaches it to hide deeper.

The Space Between “Not Okay” and “Not Allowed to Say It”

Here’s the part I hate admitting:

I don’t want to self-diagnose (1. because I am not a psychiatrist) and because deep down I know I’d check too many boxes. But I feel as if I *shouldn’t*. I have no right to be struggling given my circumstances.
I have been to therapy. I believe in therapy. I believe in people getting suppport and help. I want to help fight the stigma of mental health. But here I am— terrified someone else will confirm the thing I’m trying so hard to outrun.

So I stay in this familiar limbo— the one that allows me to not “choose” anything— instead I ride each day and each emotion like a wave. Some feel like calm waters, some tsunami-esque. I am a good swimmer, but even the best swimmer is going to need a lifejacket in certain waters.

And when you’re a bright-sider, you get very good at making treacherous water look like an inviting home.

I swim with positivity.
I workout hard to build stamina.
I keep smiling, keep moving, keep joking, keep reassuring the world (and myself) that everything is okay.

But it’s still the ocean.
And I am not sure I can swim forever.

What I am learning is that Motherhood doesn’t erase you— but it reveals you.

Becoming a mother hasn’t broken me. It has shown me the cracks that were already there. I’ve always needed to feel capable. I’ve always needed to be the person who “has it together.” I’ve always equated struggle with inconvenience, and inconvenience with guilt.

Motherhood didn’t create my fear of not being able to solve every problem thrown my way—it magnified it.

Because now it’s not just about admitting that I am overwhelmed, it feels like admitting that I’m overwhelmed while holding the most important role of my life.

That’s a heavy truth to swallow.

Being a bright-sider means you never quite feel justified in your pain.

I tell myself:

“This isn’t that bad.”
“Other moms have harder situations.”
“I don’t get to complain—I chose this.”
“I have blessings people dream of.”

But trauma doesn’t check your privilege first and anxiety doesn’t care how grateful you are. Depression doesn’t disappear just because you can list 20 things going right. Pain never needed permission to exist. Every time I minimize my feelings, I shrink myself a little more.

I’m not writing this with a hero arc. I’m not “at peace” or “on the other side.”
I’m still in the ocean, swimming with the discomfort.

But I’m starting to loosen my grip on the idea that optimism means never struggling.

I’m working on being a bright-sider who doesn’t deny the dark; I am willing to swim toward it, slowly, shakily, honestly.

Maybe therapy is the next wave I’ll weather.
Maybe naming what I’m experiencing will bring relief instead of fear.
Maybe being a mother means my resilience needs to expand—not just for my daughter, but for me.

If you’re in this ocean too, I want to say something we both need to hear:

You can be grateful and overwhelmed.
You can be strong and struggling.
You can be optimistic and anxious.
You can be a bright-sider and admit that things feel dark right now.

Your feelings don’t need to be compared to anyone else’s to matter. They just need to be allowed to exist.

The Fine Print

The fine print of being a bright-sider is this: Your light is real. Your hope is real. Your strength is real. But so is your hurt.

And you don’t have to choose one or the other.

You’re allowed to hold both.
You’re allowed to change.
You’re allowed to soften.
And you’re allowed—fully allowed—to ask for help.

I’m learning that.
Slowly. Imperfectly. Sheepishly. Bravely.

And maybe that’s the beginning of healing.

“Teaching people how to regulate their emotions is crime prevention. It’s addiction prevention. It’s suicide prevention. It’s generational healing. It’s how we stop raising adults who explode, implode, or shut down at the first sign of discomfort. Emotional regulation is not just a soft skill — it’s survival. It’s the foundation of a society where people can disagree without dehumanizing each other, where accountability isn’t seen as an attack, and where conflict doesn’t always have to mean violence. You want a better world? Start with emotional regulation.”

It’s no secret that I am a bit obsessed with emotional literacy and regulation. Some people go into teaching because they love their content, or they love the process of learning. While both are true for me — I will add in one more. I want to see a future where more people are emotionally literate. I want to help teenagers name what they’re feeling instead of numbing it, communicate instead of shutting down, and approach conflict with curiosity instead of defensiveness. I want them to leave my classroom knowing that their emotions are not weaknesses to be managed or hidden, but information — valuable data points about who they are, what they need, and how they connect with others. Because when young people can understand and regulate their inner world, they’re not just better students, they become better friends, partners, leaders, and citizens. In my eyes, maybe, *just maybe*, we end up with a world where fewer adults are carrying childhood wounds into boardrooms, classrooms, meetings, and/pr relationships because they learned early on how to tend to them.

To honor the late and great Dr. Jane Goodall, “We are the most intellectual creature that has ever walked the planet. But I carefully say intellectual rather than intelligent because if we were intelligent, we would be caring for our only home”. I would extend the definition of home not just to our physical earth- but the spiritual one we build within ourselves and around us. We live in a world where adults can build rockets to Mars— yet many still struggle to name what they’re feeling in the middle of an argument. Ask a classroom of kindergarteners to identify how a character feels in a story and you’ll often get a flood of answers: “Sad!” “Mad!” “Nervous!” Ask a room full of adults how they’re doing and you’ll get a monosyllabic, “Fine.” “Okay!” “Tired, but good!”

It’s an uncomfortable truth: in many ways, children appear more emotionally literate than the adults raising, teaching, and leading them. I believe that this gap isn’t just a quirky societal observation, it’s a profound and often invisible force shaping our schools, our politics, our workplaces, and even our most intimate relationships.

Emotional Literacy: A Forgotten Intelligence

Emotional literacy is the ability to recognize, understand, express, and regulate emotions. It is a foundational aspect to human development. Psychologist Daniel Goleman, whose work on emotional intelligence popularized the concept, argues that these skills are as essential as IQ for success in life.

Yet, while we spend decades honing our reading, writing, and reasoning, most of us never formally learn the language of feelings. We are told as children to “use our words”— but as adults, we stop. We’re expected to manage our emotions without ever learning how they work.

The result? Generations of adults who can analyze a spreadsheet but can’t identify when they’re anxious, hurt, or ashamed. This leads to a projection of unprocessed emotions onto the people around them. It leads to masking in unhealthy ways — the kind that becomes second nature. And over time, that disconnection from our inner world doesn’t just show up as irritability or avoidance; it festers into coping mechanisms that range from subtle self-sabotage to destructive patterns. We learn to silence ourselves with food, work, scrolling, or substances. We bury feelings under perfectionism, people-pleasing, and toxic productivity. And for many, the inability to process and regulate emotions becomes the root of deeper crises — addiction, broken relationships, self-harm, and even suicide. What starts as a refusal to name a feeling becomes, over years, a society that is deeply unwell but insists it’s “fine.”

Why Kids Sometimes Do It Better

Children, especially in classrooms that center social-emotional learning (SEL), are explicitly taught to name and navigate their feelings. They use “feelings wheels,” read stories about emotional regulation, and engage in daily check-ins.

Adults, meanwhile, are taught the opposite: to compartmentalize, suppress, or “toughen up.” Whether on purpose or inadvertently, boys learn early that tears are weakness, girls learn to smile through discomfort. By the time we reach adulthood, many of us have internalized the message that emotions are messy, unprofessional, and best left unspoken.

But here, I will throw us adults a bone: we are not actually less emotionally literate. We’re just far more practiced at masking it. Most of us know when we’re angry or afraid. We know when we’re lonely, overwhelmed, or resentful. But decades of social conditioning have trained us to override those signals, perform “okayness,” and conform to the emotional norms of adulthood. We bottle it up in meetings. We smile through heartbreak. We say “I’m fine” when we’re anything but. Or if you’re like me, you’re a chronic, “It could be worse— look at the bright side” kind of person. Don’t get me wrong, masking can be a very beneficial. But the more it becomes our norm, the harder it is to forget how to identify and understand our emotions, which is one of the first steps toward regulation.

This performance of composure may seem harmless, some might argue it’s the more mature route, but that can come at a deeply costly. When we deny the language of our inner lives, we cut ourselves off from the insights those feelings carry. Suppression isn’t self-control, it’s self-silencing. If you take one look at the “adult world” you might see that silence hinders growth, learning, and collective progress.

The Classroom Consequence

Nowhere is this dynamic more visible than in schools. Teachers are asked to model empathy, build safe classrooms, and support students’ emotional well-being— yet many never received training in their own emotional literacy.

This mismatch creates a disconnect: we preach self-regulation to students while rewarding compliance over authenticity. We label children “disruptive” rather than asking why they’re dysregulated. I do believe there is a shift happening, but it shouldn’t start with the kids. It should start with adults.

We design SEL programs for students but neglect the adults who deliver them.

Adults are so accustomed to hiding their emotions, we often struggle to model the very vulnerability we expect from students. A teacher who apologizes after losing their temper teaches more about emotional regulation than any worksheet ever could — but first, that teacher has to notice and name the emotion beneath the outburst.

The Political Ripple Effect

Don’t even get me started on the emotional regulation of our current sitting president. If you want a masterclass in what not to do with your emotions, you don’t need to look much further than Donald Trump. He is what I would deem a walking case study in what happens when impulse control and emotional regulation never fully develop. Watching his Twitter thread erupt would be funny if it wasn’t so sad.

We see in real time that emotional masking doesn’t just play out in classrooms — it fuels the polarization tearing at our social fabric. Our inability to tolerate discomfort means we avoid difficult conversations. Our shame becomes blame. Our fear morphs into anger. Political debates become emotional proxy wars where feelings masquerade as facts— and where listening becomes impossible.

It’s no accident that demagogues thrive in emotionally stunted societies. They speak the language of unprocessed emotion: outrage, resentment, humiliation. When people have been taught to bury their feelings rather than understand them, they become easy to manipulate.

Relearning the Language of Emotion

But Mari- the way you talk about it is all doom and gloom. No, no! The good news? The teacher in me is ecstatic to tell you that this is fixable, figureoutable, and teachable. Emotional literacy isn’t a fixed trait, it’s a skill we can unearth at any age (of course we know adults are a little more reluctant to change). However, it’s often less about learning something new and more about remembering something we once knew. It means peeling back the layers of compliance and performance we’ve built over decades. It means expanding our emotional vocabulary beyond “mad,” “sad,” and “fine.” It means practicing naming our feelings before they explode. It means modeling vulnerability in our relationships, workplaces, and classrooms— not as a weakness, but as a form of wisdom. This is what leaders do, and whether you are the leader of a company, your household, or just yourself— the spaces you lead deserve an emotionally literate and regulated person.

Here’s the paradox: the more emotionally literate we become, the less reactive and more rational our society gets. Emotional intelligence doesn’t replace critical thinking, it enables it. When we can sit with discomfort, we stop needing simple enemies. When we can name fear, we stop confusing it with truth. When we can regulate anger, we stop mistaking it for strength.

The Fine Print

The irony of our time is that we are raising children to be emotionally intelligent while adults remain emotionally masked and then we wonder why progress stalls.
If we want more empathetic classrooms, more functional politics, and more meaningful relationships, we have to stop treating emotional literacy as “soft.” It is not fluff. It is infrastructure, it is the scaffolding upon which everything else is built.

It’s never too late to relearn the language we were all fluent in once and to stop pretending we’ve forgotten it.

What we are seeing emerge isn’t just skepticism, which is a healthy and necessary part of critical thinking, but a deeper, darker cultural current event: the anti-intellectualism movement. I believe it to be the celebration of ignorance as authenticity. It’s the belief that thinking too much is elitist, that trusting experts is being a sheep to the system. That becoming well read and traditionally educated is a one way ticket to indoctrination. Increasingly, it’s the weaponization of distrust— in science, in education, in journalism— as a badge of belonging to a certain side.

Before I fully dive in- I do want to say it is important to acknowledge that the rise of this anti-intellectual sentiment isn’t born entirely from ignorance or malice. I acknowledge that in many ways, it’s a response to very real frustrations. People have seen institutions lie, corporations prioritize profit over public well-being, and experts make mistakes that cost lives. For many, rejecting mainstream narratives is a way to reclaim agency in systems that have historically excluded or betrayed them. This deep-seated skepticism is often less about hating knowledge and more about distrusting who gets to define it— and when people feel dismissed, unheard, or belittled by experts, it’s no surprise they seek answers elsewhere.

The Death of Expertise (And Why That’s a Problem)

We used to understand that expertise mattered. I still teach the rhetorical appeals for god sake— my students could tell you all about ethos. We listened to doctors about medicine, scientists about climate, and educators about learning. But in a social media landscape where every opinion looks the same in a 60-second video, the lines between evidence and anecdote blur — and suddenly, “I did my own research” becomes a rebuttal to decades of peer-reviewed science and instead synonymous with a quick Google search or read in an online forum. What used to be “I read this article” is now replaced with “I heard it online.” I don’t demonize the online world, but we must examine its role.

Somewhere along the way, rejecting expertise stopped being a stance and started being a style. What used to be a critical examination of power structures has, in many circles, devolved into a lazy posture — a shortcut to looking “awake” without doing the uncomfortable work of actually learning. It’s easier to repost a meme that mocks scientists than to read a 40-page study. It’s simpler to declare that “the media is lying” than to sift through conflicting sources, check biases, and form a nuanced opinion. And it’s far more gratifying to believe that everyone else is brainwashed than to confront the possibility that you might not know as much as you think you do.

This is the heart of the anti-intellectual trend: it rewards disengagement. It allows people to opt out of complexity under the guise of rebellion. It frames apathy as independence and turns intellectual laziness into a kind of social currency — the less you trust, the more “critical” you appear. But skepticism without curiosity isn’t critical thinking; it’s complacency dressed up as depth. And what’s most dangerous about this cultural shift is that it numbs our collective capacity for growth. Because if questioning everything leads us to question nothing deeply, then the very muscle of critical thought — the one that advances societies — begins to atrophy.

This isn’t about healthy questioning. Questioning is essential — science itself is built on skepticism, questioning, trial and error. But what’s happening now is different. It’s a wholesale rejection of knowledge because it comes from institutions. The thinking patter of, “If experts agree on it, it must be part of a cover-up” or “They get paid for saying that.” It doesn’t mean this has never happened- but we cannot live a life fearful that every single expert has dedicated their life to trying to bamboozle you. This is how we end up with people refusing life-saving vaccines, denying climate change as their neighborhoods flood, and insisting the Earth is flat — not as a joke, but as a conviction.

Cult Thinking in Disguise

The most unsettling part of this anti-intellectual wave is how much it mimics the structure of a cult. At its core, it thrives on a simple psychological promise. It is othering at its core and a deep belief that, “You are smarter than them.” The more you reject mainstream information, the more you prove you’re part of the enlightened few (regardless of the fact that you read at a second grade level and use Jesus as an excuse to hate your neighbor— oops sorry snark).

It’s a seductive idea. It tells people that they’re brave truth-seekers, not misinformed. It builds tight-knit communities bound not by shared facts but by shared enemies — “Big Pharma,” “the media,” “the elites,” “the system.” And it replaces nuance with narratives that are far easier to swallow than complex, messy truths.

The tragedy is that this kind of thinking isolates people from reality. It turns education into indoctrination in their minds. It frames compromise as weakness. And it shuts down the very curiosity that drives human progress.

How We Got Here

There are real reasons people have lost trust, I cannot deny that— and pretending otherwise is part of the problem. Institutions have made mistakes. Science has evolved and corrected itself (that’s literally how it works). Experts have failed to communicate clearly. Some really bad powerful people exist. Duh. And when systems consistently fail certain groups, distrust is understandable. Or if someone feels victimized- of course they will look for an out.

But acknowledging institutional flaws is not the same as abandoning expertise altogether. When skepticism crosses into cynicism— when “I don’t trust everything” becomes “I trust nothing”— we stop being critical thinkers and start being easy targets for misinformation. The danger isn’t just ignorance; it’s the illusion of understanding without the work of actually learning.

The Fine Print

It is a reality that we live in a society where truth has nuance and subjectivity. What we have to stop doing though is treating education as a partisan act. We have to stop conflating the idea of questioning authority with denying evidence. And we have to stop pretending that expertise is elitism — it’s a form of collective wisdom, built on centuries of trial, error, and progress.

Anti-intellectualism isn’t rebellion. It’s regression. It’s the erosion of the very tools that have allowed us to eradicate diseases, explore galaxies, and connect across continents. And if we keep celebrating ignorance as authenticity, we risk building a future where the loudest voice wins — not the most truthful one.

I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t have all the answers — and that’s precisely the point (okay don’t ask my husband if that is true because in this house I do have all the answers). However, the goal of engaging with complex ideas isn’t to arrive at some final, unshakable truth; it’s to stay curious enough to keep asking better questions.

I write about these topics not from a place of superiority, but from a place of grappling — with my own biases, my own blind spots, and my own evolving understanding.

There are days when I rethink my stance entirely after reading something new or hearing a perspective I hadn’t considered. That’s what intellectual humility looks like: recognizing that knowledge is a living thing, and that our relationship to it should keep growing and shifting. If anything, admitting what we don’t know is the most honest act of intellect there is.

The fine print? Real critical thinking is hard. It requires humility, patience, and a willingness to admit when we’re wrong. But that’s also what makes it powerful. Because the alternative — a world where facts are optional and expertise is irrelevant — is far more dangerous than any conspiracy theory ever could be.

When I started my doctoral program in Organizational Change and Leadership, I looked around at my peers—superintendents, executives, military leaders, nonprofit directors—and felt a pang of imposter syndrome. They were leading systems, shaping policies, running organizations. And me? I was “just a classroom teacher.” At first, that title felt small in comparison. But as the program went on, I realized something: the classroom is one of the most rigorous leadership laboratories there is. Every day, I was navigating change, managing conflict, inspiring buy-in, and building culture—often with a hundred teenagers watching my every move. What I once saw as “just teaching” was actually leadership in its rawest, most human form.

The classroom, I’ve realized, is a mirror for leadership everywhere.

Lesson 1: Clarity & Connection Beats Control

In my first year of teaching, I thought good leadership meant tight control: strict rules, firm boundaries, no wiggle room. Unsurprisingly, my students tested every limit. Eventually I realized the problem wasn’t that I lacked authority—it was that I wasn’t clear enough about the why.

Teenagers (and adults) don’t respond to micromanagement; they respond to purpose. When I shifted from “Don’t talk while I’m talking” to “We listen so everyone’s ideas can be heard,” behavior changed. The classroom settled into a rhythm not because I demanded it, but because students understood the shared goal. I walked the talk that I so desperately wanted. I wanted connection.

Over time, I learned that the strongest classrooms—and the strongest teams—aren’t held together by control but by connection. Control can enforce compliance, but it rarely inspires commitment. Connection, on the other hand, creates a sense of loyalty and shared purpose. When students knew I cared about them as people, not just as test scores or participants, they pushed themselves further than any rule or consequence could have compelled. The same is true in leadership everywhere: people don’t remember the policies you enforced, they remember how you made them feel—and that feeling is what drives real growth and accountability.

Leaders in any space can take note: clarity of purpose and strength of connection beats control every time.

Lesson 2: Conflict is Data, Not a Disaster

There’s a saying in education: If you don’t have conflict, you don’t have teenagers. One afternoon, two students erupted into a shouting match over something as trivial as who “stole” a seat. My instinct was to shut it down quickly, but I paused. When I let them voice their frustrations (with some boundaries), I discovered it wasn’t about the chair at all. It was about belonging—both wanted to claim their place in the room.

Conflict, I realized, is information. It signals where values clash, where systems don’t feel fair, where people don’t feel seen. In classrooms and boardrooms alike, conflict isn’t the enemy—it’s data that can guide us toward better systems and stronger relationships. What looked like chaos was actually a window into their deeper needs.

This reframing shifted the way I approached conflict. Instead of asking, How do I make this stop?, I started asking, What is this telling me? That question works far beyond the classroom. In organizations, conflict often points to misaligned values, unclear expectations, or gaps in communication. Leaders who treat conflict as data don’t just resolve issues—they uncover opportunities to strengthen culture and systems.

Conflict isn’t the enemy of leadership. Indifference is. A heated exchange means people care enough to fight for something. The real disaster isn’t conflict—it’s silence, disengagement, and the absence of honest feedback.

Lesson 3: Resilience Lives in Relationships

One of my most resilient classes was also one of my most challenging: a group of students balancing jobs, family responsibilities, unstable home lives, cycles of poverty, on top of all the normal “teenage” stuff. What kept them coming back wasn’t necessarily my curriculum (although I gotta say even with a slow start, they usually love acting out Hamlet); it was the relationships we built. They knew I saw them as whole people, not just as test scores or essays.

People show up for people, not just tasks. A team that feels connected will weather stress, setbacks, and change far better than a team that feels transactional. Resilience doesn’t live in strategy documents—it lives in trust.

When students felt they belonged, they took risks. When they trusted I would notice their absence, they came back. When they believed someone saw their effort, even if the outcome wasn’t perfect, they kept trying. That web of connection carried them through challenges no lesson plan could prepare them for.

The same holds true in leadership everywhere. Teams don’t endure hard seasons because of mission statements taped to the wall—they endure because of the bonds between people. A leader who invests in authentic connection creates a safety net that allows others to stumble without fear, innovate without shame, and persevere without burning out. Strategies, systems, and policies matter, but they don’t hold people up when things get hard. Relationships do.

Resilience isn’t a solo act; it’s a collective one. And the leaders who understand that are the ones whose people can withstand pressure, adapt to change, and still move forward together.

Lesson 4: Feedback is a Mirror Too

Every assignment I grade, every paper I return, is feedback. But my students remind me constantly: feedback isn’t just about improvement, it’s about identity. A single comment can reinforce or unravel confidence.

That responsibility has reshaped how I give feedback everywhere—in research, in coaching, even in conversations at home. Good feedback isn’t a verdict; it’s a mirror that helps someone see their potential more clearly. The best leaders know this: feedback is a tool for growth, not judgment.

What I’ve slowly realize is that the truth is people don’t grow from feedback that labels them; they grow from feedback that illuminates their potential. Leaders who recognize this hold the power to reshape not only performance, but identity. Feedback, when done well, is less about pointing out flaws and more about showing someone a clearer reflection of who they’re becoming.

Closing: Leadership, in the Wild

What the classroom continues to teach me is that leadership isn’t a title. It isn’t managing tasks, delivering orders, or holding control. It’s showing up with clarity, navigating conflict with curiosity, building resilience through relationships, and offering feedback that affirms as much as it corrects.

At the end of the day, teenagers have been some of my greatest teachers. They’ll call out your blind spots, test your patience, and push your limits—but they’ll also remind you of the power of honesty, connection, and starting over fresh each morning. Leading a classroom has shown me that leadership isn’t about having all the answers; it’s about showing up, listening deeply, and creating spaces where people can become more of who they already are. If you can lead a room full of teenagers—with their humor, contradictions, brilliance, and chaos—you can lead anywhere. And maybe that’s the real secret: leadership isn’t something we master, it’s something we practice, together, in the everyday moments that shape us all.

Whether you’re teaching a room of teenagers, guiding a corporate team, or raising a child, leadership is everywhere—and the classroom, for me, is the clearest mirror of all.

Over the years, I’ve learned that mindfulness isn’t about escaping life’s incessant chaos—it’s about finding a way to breathe through it, to be with it, to practice radical acceptance with fierce curiosity. As both a high school English teacher and a mindfulness facilitator, I’ve seen firsthand how these practices can transform not only stress levels but also communication, decision-making, and overall culture. It can transforms lives and can transform systems, which is why I shout it from the rooftops whenever I can.

Why Mindfulness Works in Real-World Settings

Whether I’m guiding a group of 16-year-olds or a team of adults, the challenges are surprisingly similar. On the surface, their lives may look worlds apart—teenagers navigating exams, friendships, and identity; professionals managing deadlines, client demands, and strategic goals. But at the core, the human challenges are the same:

• Distraction overload – phones buzzing, emails piling up, the constant ping of urgency. Both students and professionals are bombarded with information and notifications, leaving little room for deep focus or reflection.

• Emotional reactivity – saying or doing something in the heat of the moment, then regretting it later. For teens, it might be a quick retort in class or an impulsive text. For executives, it could be a hasty decision in a high-stakes meeting or a tense email fired off too soon.

• Mental fatigue – feeling “on” all the time without room to recharge. Students race from class to class, sports practice, and homework; professionals bounce from meeting to meeting, juggling work-life demands with no real pause.

• Pressure to perform – whether it’s the weight of grades or quarterly reports, the expectation to constantly achieve can create anxiety and a fear of failure.

• Relationship strain – conflicts with peers, colleagues, or clients often stem from miscommunication and unregulated emotions, not a lack of skill or intelligence.

Mindfulness, in these spaces, becomes a great equalizer. It doesn’t matter if you’re wearing a school hoodie or a tailored suit—everyone benefits from tools that quiet the noise, steady the mind, and create a buffer between stimulus and response. Mindfulness interrupts those cycles. It creates micro-moments to notice what’s happening before reacting. Over time, those micro-moments add up to major changes—in how we lead, teach, and connect with others.

Mindfulness strengthens emotional intelligence by training us to pause, observe, and name what we’re feeling before we act. This intentional slowing down creates a crucial gap between stimulus and response, allowing us to choose how we engage rather than reacting on autopilot. In moments of stress or conflict, mindfulness helps regulate the body’s stress response—lowering heart rate, easing muscle tension, and calming the mind—which makes it easier to access empathy, listen actively, and respond with clarity. Over time, these practices build greater self-awareness and self-management, two core pillars of emotional intelligence, leading to more thoughtful decisions, healthier relationships, and reduced regret over reactive outbursts.

So let me offer you 3 practical exercises you could use right now. You won’t…. or will you? I dare ya.

3 Practical Mindfulness Exercises Anyone Can Use

These are the tools I’ve seen work in both classrooms and corporate workshops:

1. The 5-5-5 Breath

   • Inhale for 5 counts, hold for 5, exhale for 5.

   • Use it before delivering a presentation, grading a stack of essays, or walking into a tough conversation.

2. Name It to Tame It

   • Silently name the emotion you’re feeling (“frustration,” “overwhelm,” “excitement”).

   • Simply acknowledging the emotion shifts brain activity from the amygdala (reactive) to the prefrontal cortex (reflective).

3. One-Thing Attention

   • Choose one small action—sipping coffee, washing hands, walking to the copier—and do it with full attention.

   • Notice sensations, movements, and sounds. This practice strengthens focus and presence.

The Ripple Effect

When students practice these techniques, I see them handle peer conflict more calmly, speak up with more confidence, and even improve their ability to focus during lessons. When professionals practice them, I see clearer communication, more thoughtful leadership, and reduced stress in high-pressure situations.

Mindfulness doesn’t require a mat, incense, or hours of meditation (although those things sure don’t hurt). It just requires intention and practice in the very environments that challenge us the most.

So next time your mind feels scattered, your patience thin, or your day too full, try a single mindful breath. Maybe write a sentence of gratitude. Name an emotion and come up with a simple next step of action. It may not change the world in that moment—but it just might change yours.

I’ve been a high school English teacher for nearly a decade. I’ve taught in schools with students from a wide range of backgrounds, many of them navigating poverty, unstable housing, systemic inequities, and the daily stressors that come with being a teenager in 2025. I can promise you—no matter how strong your curriculum, no matter how well-crafted your lesson plans—if a student feels unsafe, unseen, or unworthy, the learning doesn’t happen.

The Day SEL Saved the Lesson

Let me give you a typical day in the life. Let’s say I have a student—I’ll call him Anthony—who comes into class visibly upset. His usual seat in the back corner looked more like a refuge than a learning space. I could have jumped into the day’s lesson on persuasive writing, pretending not to notice. Instead, I took 45 seconds to check in privately: “Hey, I can tell something’s up. Do you need to step out, do you want to talk, or do you want to just sit quietly for a bit?”

Those 45 seconds didn’t derail the lesson. They built trust. Anthony stayed in class. He didn’t complete all the work that day—but he also didn’t storm out, or lash out, or give up entirely. Over time, those small moments of connection will create a bridge strong enough for him to walk across when he was ready to re-engage academically. I know because I’ve seen it time and time again.

That’s SEL in action. Not a separate lesson plan. Not a “soft skill” to squeeze in if time allows. It’s a survival strategy for both students and teachers. It’s a way of being.

What the Research Actually Says

In my doctoral research, I’m exploring how well teacher credentialing programs prepare educators to address the social-emotional needs of students. The findings are clear: SEL is not an optional add-on—it’s a core component of effective teaching. Research from CASEL (2023) shows that SEL implementation improves academic outcomes, reduces behavior issues, and strengthens long-term life skills. The skills we teach—self-awareness, self-management, social awareness, relationship skills, and responsible decision-making—are not “nice to have.” They are the foundation that makes learning possible.

Yet too often, SEL is treated as if it’s in competition with “real” academics. This is a false choice. We don’t have to choose between raising test scores and teaching students to regulate emotions. It’s not build critical thinking OR build healthy relationships. It’s not research STEM or navigate conflict. In fact, we can’t sustainably do the first without the second.

Why the “Fluff” Argument Persists

The resistance to SEL comes from a misunderstanding of what it actually is. To some, it sounds like coloring pages and kumbaya circles. But in practice, it’s far more rigorous. SEL requires teachers to:

• Adapt to the emotional climate of the room in real time.

• Model healthy conflict resolution and empathy.

• Scaffold learning in ways that acknowledges trauma and lived experience.

That’s not soft. That’s complex, high-stakes work—and it’s often done without adequate training or support.

The Cost of Ignoring SEL

If we strip SEL from schools, we don’t get more academic time—we get more disruptions, more disengagement, and more students silently drowning in challenges we can’t see.

Anthony could have been another “behavior problem” on a referral slip. Instead, he graduated. I won’t pretend SEL was the only reason—but I know it was part of the reason. And for many kids, that’s enough.

The Bottom Line

SEL is not fluff. It’s the scaffolding that holds up the structure of learning. If we want our students to thrive, not just survive, we must stop treating it like an optional accessory and start funding, training, and integrating it as a core part of education.

Because when we say SEL is extra, what we’re really saying is: the humanity of our students is extra. And that’s something I will never accept.

It’s a question I’ve heard more than once—always delivered with a furrowed brow or a concerned tone, as if their concern is objective rather than rooted in bias.

I usually respond, “Actually, yes, if we lived in the area!” Because I would. I know the brilliance, care, and talent that fill the halls of the school where I work. But the truth is, we don’t live in that neighborhood—so eventually, my children will attend the school closest to home, for the convenience of proximity and friendships. And that in itself is a complexity I’m still working through. Because while I wholeheartedly believe in the school I teach at, I also recognize how uneven the playing field is when it comes to systems of power, privilege, and access.

When people say they just want to send their child to a “good” school, I often pause and wonder—what do they really mean by “good”? Is it test scores? A pristine campus? Or is it an unspoken code for white, wealthy, and well-resourced? Because too often, “bad” schools are labeled that way not because of their quality, but because of their demographics. The assumption that a school serving Black, Brown, immigrant, or low-income students is inherently less safe or less capable is not only false—it’s harmful. I’ve seen exceptional teaching and deep, meaningful learning happen in schools that would never make a “Best Of” list. And I’ve heard stories from supposedly “good” schools that reveal a very different reality behind the facade. So, as TS once said, I hate it here—because we’re still using coded language to uphold systems of segregation and inequality, all while pretending it’s just about what’s “best” for our kids.

All too often, the phrase “bad schools” is carelessly—and unjustly—used as a stand-in for “Title 1 schools.” As someone who has spent my entire career teaching in Title 1-funded schools, I feel a deep responsibility to push back against the stigma and misinformation that continue to cloud public perception. These schools are not failing us, we are failing them—they are underfunded, under-resourced, and too often underestimated. It’s time to shift the narrative, and that shift begins with how we speak about them: with respect, accuracy, and an acknowledgment of both the challenges they face and the brilliance they cultivate.

The Reality

The challenges that many underfunded schools face are not a reflection of the quality or commitment of the students, families, or educators within them—they are the result of broader systemic inequities. Schools are deeply interconnected with the communities they serve, and when those communities are impacted by limited access to healthcare, housing, and economic opportunity, schools are asked to carry more than their fair share. This is not a school problem—it’s a societal one. Underfunded schools are often doing incredible work with limited resources, supported by resilient families and dedicated staff. But without addressing the root causes of inequity—such as poverty, housing insecurity, and structural racism—we continue to place the burden of systemic failure on individual schools. Educational equity requires more than classroom solutions; it demands a societal commitment to justice and investment in every child’s potential.

This entire conversation is layered with complexity—because while language, mindset, and advocacy are powerful tools for change, we also can’t ignore the role that money plays in shaping life outcomes. Access to well-funded schools often means smaller class sizes, updated materials, mental health support, arts programs, extracurriculars, and college counseling—all of which directly impact a child’s educational experience and future opportunities. It’s not that students in underfunded schools are any less capable or ambitious; it’s that they’re often forced to succeed in spite of the system, rather than because of it. Wealth shouldn't determine worth, but in our current structures, it too often does. Acknowledging this reality doesn’t mean giving up—it means being honest about the deeply rooted inequities that must be addressed if we truly want to build a stronger educational landscape.

The Power of Words

Too often, we hear phrases like “Title 1 school,” and it’s said with an undertone of pity or deficit thinking. But here’s the reality: a school that receives Title 1 funding is not defined by its challenges but by its commitment to equity. These schools receive additional resources to ensure that every student, no matter their socioeconomic background, has access to a quality education. Framing it as “a Title 1 school” oversimplifies and stigmatizes, reducing these vibrant, resilient communities to a stereotype. Instead, let’s acknowledge them for what they are—schools with additional support to help every child thrive.

These schools are painted as places of deficiency rather than resilience, as broken systems rather than vibrant communities full of promise. I’ve seen firsthand the brilliance, determination, and untapped potential of students who are too frequently underestimated simply because of their ZIP code. These are not schools in need of pity—they are schools that deserve investment, respect, and the same opportunities afforded to more affluent campuses. Changing the narrative means highlighting the strengths, acknowledging the systemic barriers, and committing to equity not just in funding, but in expectations, resources, and representation.

Breaking the Stigma

Teaching at a school that receives Title 1 funding has been one of the greatest joys of my life. The students I work with are brilliant, resilient, and endlessly creative. They inspire me daily with their curiosity, determination, and heart. Yet, these kids are often overlooked or underestimated by those who don’t understand their potential. The stigma attached to Title 1 funding doesn’t just hurt the reputation of the schools—it unfairly defines the students and staff who work so hard within them.

It’s Not About the Ego

Saviorism alert: I want to address a common sentiment I’ve noticed: some educators wear their experience teaching at Title 1-funded schools as a badge of honor. While there’s nothing wrong with being proud of the work we do, it’s crucial to remember that our job isn’t about us. Teaching in these schools is not an achievement to showcase—it’s a responsibility. It’s about showing up for the kids, advocating for their needs, and celebrating their successes. We need to check our egos at the door and focus on what truly matters: creating equitable, inclusive spaces for every student. That means listening more than we speak, learning from the communities we serve, and constantly reflecting on how our own biases or assumptions may be impacting our practice. True impact doesn't come from being seen as a savior—it comes from committing to justice, consistency, and humility in our work every single day.

Celebrating What’s Real

Schools that receive Title 1 funding are filled with stories of triumph, creativity, community, and resilience. They are home to incredible educators and students who are breaking barriers and exceeding expectations every day. These schools deserve celebration, not pity. They deserve solutions, not sob stories. Let’s challenge ourselves to lift up these communities and change the narrative by highlighting their strengths and celebrating their successes, while staying rooted in the reality of how these communities were left behind in the first place.

How You Can Help Change the Narrative

1. Choose Your Words Wisely: Say “a school that receives Title 1 funding” instead of “a Title 1 school.” This subtle shift changes the focus from a label to the purpose of the funding.

2. Amplify Positive Stories: Share the successes and strengths of these schools and the people in them.

3. Advocate for Equity: Recognize that Title 1 funding is about providing equitable opportunities, acknowledging barriers, and supporting policies that aim to close educational gaps.

4. Challenge Bias When You Hear It: Speak up when you hear someone refer to a school or neighborhood in coded or dismissive ways. Help others examine the assumptions behind phrases like “bad area” or “rough school.”

5. Educate Yourself and Others: Learn about how Title 1 funding works, what it’s intended for, and the systemic issues it seeks to address. Share that knowledge in your circles.

6. Uplift Student and Family Voices: Listen to and center the perspectives of the students and families who are part of these communities. They are the experts of their own experience.

7. Recognize Excellence in All Spaces: Celebrate quality teaching, student achievement, and innovation wherever it occurs—not just in schools with prestige or high rankings.

Let’s stop the harmful narratives and start celebrating the incredible communities, educators, and students who thrive in these spaces every day. Change begins with us—and it starts with the words we choose and the stories we tell.

I could talk for hours and hours about this profession (do we need another teacher podcast? probably not). It is a passion of mine- and although it might seem like I wrote a lot.. I feel as if I am barely scratching the surface. Bottom line, I love this crazy, exhausting, and rewarding job of mine.

What is your teaching philosophy- in one sentence- go!

Teach students how to think, not what to think.

Every kid needs and deserves a high quality education and high quality love.

....Oops- two sentences.

Was there an “ah-ha” moment that led you to becoming a teacher/ wanting to pursue this career?

Honestly, no, but kind of? I think I had a bit of an unconventional calling towards teaching. My mom and my grandmother were both teachers and my whole life I was so against the idea- it didn’t interest me. I loved learning, but was indifferent toward school. Long story short- I wanted to go into occupational therapy. That's what I had my eyes set on for a long time. I studied Psychology during my undergrad years and it wasn’t until I was completing an internship in Cape Town, South Africa- where I was shadowing an OT at a school for children with Autism- that my teacher spark ignited. I found myself loving the time that I got to interact with the kids in a classroom and learning setting, more than I enjoyed pulling them out and working one on one as an OT. That was when I finally thought to myself, “Oh shit- I think I want to be a teacher.” I chose English because I have a deep passion for writing and the power of words, but more importantly, I think teaching English opens the doors to so many other avenues of conversation. The last thing I will say, and why I think many teachers go into this profession, is not because we like the current education system and want to be a part of it, but because we see the flaws and inequities in the system and want to change it.

Despite the struggles, did online teaching bring any changes that you think should remain for the better?

I love this question because I feel that, in general, everyone is focused on everything we lost throughout the pandemic. But I think what has kept me afloat over the past few years is the fact that I have focused primarily on what IS working, not what isn’t. I have realized how “paperless” school can be (don’t come at me- there is always time and place for paper assignments!!). I also think this year has demanded that we think even more creatively than we already do, and I enjoy that challenge. I hope to carry this mindset into the rest of my career.

What suggestions have your kids made that you’ve implemented successfully?

Oooh! Okay, so at the end of each quarter I have my kids fill out a survey which is alllll about feedback for the class. I take what they say to heart and try to implement as many of their ideas as I can on how to make class better, no matter how wild. Usually they have a favorite and least favorite assignment, and I try to tweak my curriculum to have more of the “enjoyable” assignments fill up our days. I also don’t really give extra homework, which is partially because students always ask for no homework, but also because I have not seen homework be super beneficial to students' actual learning. One of the more recent requests was to get LED lights streamed throughout our room- I got the damn lights.

What jobs do you occasionally day dream about switching over to after teaching?

It is no secret that I love to write! So in my dream world, I would be a full time writer. On the reallyyyy crazy days, I day dream about any job that doesn’t require you to be “on” for 8 hours a day, or where you aren’t interacting and responsible for the educational, emotional, and physical well being of nearly 150+ people every day. My extroverted self comes out as a teacher, but I think I would thrive at a job that requires less extroversion.

Teachers are way underpaid, under appreciated, and deserve more support!

HA! Say it louder for the people in back. Thank you. I agree on every level. There is so much to be said about this, and I think if anyone disagrees then, respectfully, they really have no idea what they are talking about. And... that's okay. I don't expect the average person to fully understand what educators *actually* do. I think people believe they know what the job of being an educator entails because everyone has gone through our education system to some degree. But just because I have been to a doctor's office doesn’t mean I can then perform surgery. I have known and witnessed many talented, intelligent, and amazing teachers leave the profession solely based on these reasons (underpaid, under appreciated, and lack of support). The term “recovering ex-teacher” comes to mind- and I have had friends leave teaching to pursue becoming lawyers, therapists, and medical professions in hopes it will be ‘easier’ in terms of pay, support, and appreciation.

What do you do to counter burn out?

This is probably the most complex and most important question. The short answer- I don’t have a good answer. The longer answer: You have to find your own joy. You also have to know what your boundaries are and if the way you are teaching, or the way you are being treated, crosses those boundaries regularly, that is a recipe for disaster (I'd say this for ANY job... not just teaching). Teaching asks SO much of us, every single minute of every single day. It is also a profession that no one fully understands, unless you are an educator. You won’t get kudos for the amount of work you put in. Teaching requires a flexible mindset and a willingness to try again and again and again. Additionally, I believe that if you take things super personally or are rigid in your practices, burn out will creep up on you. Of course, the most important repellent of burn out would be to build relationships with your students. Getting to know my students and their hopes, dreams, and passions is the highlight of my job, and so that is what I focus on nurturing- them as people. I try not to let the curriculum or standards stress me out. I also think it is so important to truly work on having a healthy work-life balance. The work is NEVER done as a teacher, you could arrive at school at 6 am, leave at 6 pm and go home and still choose to work for multiple hours. There is always something to do. So deciding how you are going to balance that amount of work with the other parts of your life is vital. For me, teaching is a part of who I am, but it is not my whole identity. I hold onto that ideology.

How many hours a week do you actually work?

I am not sure there is a real solid answer to this question. Contractually, I work 40 ish hours a week. So if I were to only work my contracted hours… there is your answer. Ha. However, I don’t know many teachers who ONLY work during their contracted hours every day. Some days I might. But there have definitely been weeks where I have come close to working 70+ hours (LOL to the weeks where I was grading 180 five page essays). However, I would also say that I have gotten really good at creating boundaries with my work life and home life- I know some teachers who work 50-70+ hour weeks every week… and to them I say.. Hey hun.. Don’t do that to yourself.

You have 2-3 month off a year, right?!

Every district is different! For my school district, we get 2 months “off” a year. I put those in quotes because once again, I know very few teachers who don’t work during those weeks. Some might and that is great! Well deserved. I wish I was there. However, most teachers I know have at least one other side gig or part time job. For example, I tutor part time, and teach yoga part time. I have also taught summer school in the past. So on those weeks “off” (which we are not getting paid for- we are only paid about 10 months out of the year), I am, in fact, still working.

What is the most rewarding part of the job?

There are so many ways I could answer this! Which is a blessing. Watching the students discover who they are- for real- that is THE highlight. Seeing them become more confident not only in their school work, but in who they are as a person takes the cake. I love my content (English), and I love watching students “get it”- but it doesn’t compare to the process of getting to know these kids and hope that something I said or some interaction we had has impacted them in some positive way.

Where do you draw the line of adding in your personal opinions about certain topics?

This is a good one. So, I stand firm in teaching my students how to think, not what to think. However, if students ask me my personal opinions, especially at the high school age/level, I will usually be pretty honest with them. They know I am an open book. I explain my opinion and support it with evidence to back up what I am saying and why I believe in whatever they asked about. It demonstrates critical thinking skills in real time for them, and models the skills that we need to make sure our students leave high school with-the ability to be open minded, think critically, challenge their own ideas as well as others, and be curious about why they think the things they think.

To piggyback off of this idea though, many people think that politics don’t belong in the classroom. I highly disagree. Our lives drip of politics, whether you want to believe that or not- but staying out of politics is a pretty privileged stand point to take. So, if they don’t belong in the classroom, an educational, and mostly objective setting...where we ask for deep critical thinking, fact checking, and evidence based answers- then may I ask where DO politics belong?

Typically I approach sensitive subjects with immense care. I work hard to cultivate a classroom culture that can handle hard conversations and discuss controversial topics with respect. I teach students to have student led conversations so I am more of a facilitator in these discussions, not just sitting there preaching my own thoughts. I ask them questions, have them back it up with evidence, and discuss.

What do you wish you knew about the profession before you went into it?

First and foremost, you will never understand the demand of teaching until you are literally thrown into it, with your own kids, your own class. Student teaching and going through my Masters program was insightful and… important.. ish. However, it didn’t teach me how to handle all the demands of teaching. That comes with practical experience. This job is also ALWAYS changing, no hour is the same- which makes it extremely fun and absolutely exhausting. Authenticity is important, being EMOTIONALLY INTELLIGENT AND REGULATED is a must.

What does the general public not understand about teaching?

Most teachers pour their heart and soul into their job. We love what we do. We are GOOD at what we do. But there are so many factors the influence the work that we do that are completely out of our control. We think about your students all the time. We are expected to give each child our full attention and teach to their level- but we have 20-200 students to do that for daily, depending on our grade level. Also, just because you attended school doesn’t mean you know what a teachers job actually entails. I usually tell people that the actual act of TEACHING my curriculum is about 10% of my job. The other 90% are all the other responsibilities we have.

I would also like to try to explain it like this:

Imagine your job is to give six 1 hour presentations every single day. Your presentation has to be engaging, enriching, and you have to reach every single audience member. If they are bored or do not understand what you are teaching them, it is then deemed your fault. You also get one hour a day to prep for those other six hours, which means you will definitely be prepping beyond your contracted hours. Any materials you need for your presentations you will have to buy with your own money, and in addition you not only need to make sure you are teaching your audience content, but you are also responsible for whether or not they are behaving appropriately and have good social emotional skills.

That's a pretty watered down version of what we do. But hopefully it gives a*little* perspective.

Least favorite teaching moment?

I honestly can’t think of a specific least favorite- but all of my less than desirable moments have involved students whose needs were greater than I could comfort in the moment (students experiencing PTSD or homelessness or trauma and bringing that into the classroom). During my first years of teaching I felt a bit hopeless in these situations, wanting to help more than I was actually able to. Next would be negative parent interactions. I am lucky to only have had a few of these, but I once had a parent scream in my face that I wanted their child, and probably all of my students, to fail. In the moment I was in disbelief, now I can look back on it and laugh a little bit. I can stand firm in my truth and authenticity, that if there is one thing I am as a teacher it is caring, empathetic, and supportive. During the hard moments, I reflect back on what my truth is and the good I am trying to do.

Favorite teaching moment?

Everyday I have a new one! This job literally provides the highest highs (and the lowest lows). I would say a general favorite is just that I try to laugh with my kids daily. But more specifically, some of the overnight trips or day field trips have been on with students stick out as favorites. There is less pressure about the day to day content, and more wiggle room that allows us to see the students outside of a classroom setting. It’s so fun. I also love when students who have graduated come back to say hey or send an email with a life update- those moments are so special.

Words of advice for new teachers?

• Find time to laugh with your kids every single day. No matter what.

• Try early on to not bring too much work home with you. I know it is hard. But try. Teaching is a part of your life- don’t let it be your WHOLE life.

• Not every single assignment needs grading. Ha. First year me did that... she drowned.

• Steer clear of negative colleagues. There will always be people complaining about everything. The occasional venting is fine, and probably necessary, but constant complaining… toxic.

• It is so overused and cliche to say- but it has purpose. Come back to your “why” as often as you can. The day to day can get messy, but if you can stay grounded in your “why”- not in a toxic positivity way, but in a real authentic WHY are you here… I think you will be just fine.

• Just as it is in life, everything is temporary, the thing that is SO DIFFICULT to handle, juggle, work through… it will pass. You’ve got this.

As always, I am speaking all from my own personal experience and opinions. I cannot speak for every teacher. It’s a bit of a long one, but I truly enjoyed answering all of these!

Thank you for the questions.

I would love to make this teacher talk Q & A a monthly thing!

For me, the process of writing itself was probably the easiest part. The most natural, the most healing.

What I didn’t know then, and what I am still working on now, is overcoming the imposter syndrome that hit me like a ton of bricks. Every time I thought about actually putting my writing *out there*, part of me wanted to retire my pen and paper (or keyboard) and never create anything again.

I have been writing for as long as I can remember. I would spend hours after school or sports on our one family computer that took 15 minutes to power on to create. I would write fictional stories, ones inspired by books I had read, or sometimes inspired by my own wild imagination which usually consisted of all things horses. I knew from an early age that a bucket list item for me to would always be to write and publish my own book. But, ironically, that never meant I wanted people to see it. It felt like a very personal goal. I didn’t write for others eyes, I wrote for my own heart.

I originally set arbitrary goals for myself. I aimed for, "before I turn 25!"... which eventually turned into, "before I turn 30!"... so, there I was at 27, still in slight disbelief that my first book became available worldwide! I say first book because if you’re a self diagnosed ADHD’er, and clinically diagnosed anxious OCD’er, you also have about 6 other book projects simultaneously in the works.

When it got closer to being consumable, then the dream really started to spread like wild fire. Should I write more? Do I even want people to see it? I even started to envisioned what it would be like if I'd propose my manuscript to publishing companies, but that thought brought me to a halt. I had two scenarios played out in my head:

Scenario 1: They would all LOVE it, want it, need it. It would be a painless process, for once my writing was done, fame would overcome me- the next Rupi Kaur. In a quick and painless flash, I would be a full time writer!

Scenario 2 (and what felt like the obvious reality): I would get laughed at, scoffed at. No one would entertain page two, after they read page one. My writing is abysmal, why would I ever think I am capable of producing words that people would actually want to read?!?!

So, as any anxious person who was working on getting rid of their black and white thinking in therapy would make themselves believe- those were the ONLY two possibilities. I had a 50/50 chance of this either being the best thing EVER, or my dreams would die quickly. In my mind there was zero room for an in-between result.

Fast forward (or rewind back) to Spring 2020 (sorry if this time period brings back some PTSD- I feel ya).

I had been talking to a retired publisher and as I imagined many publishers would be, she was brutally honest- although in a kind way. "This might not be the right time for you to publish through a company. Many offices are slightly on hold with taking on new clients or authors due to COVID-19. You might want to think about self publishing, especially just to get this first pitch out there!"

I wasn't hurt nor surprised, but also not elated about her suggestion. It made sense, but her suggestion terrified me.

Self publish. Do it myself? Only fake writers self publish. Only people who can't catch the eye of a big publishing company self publish. Only bad writers self publish.

But as time went on and I began solidifying and finishing the entirety of my manuscript, I felt like if I didn't just take the leap, then I never would.

So I had to put my ego aside. "Why the hell not?! Get it over with!" These words seemed to creep into my bloodstream as the tumultuous year of 2020 knocked so much uncertainty into all of our lives. Why not just drop the cherry on top? Do the damn thing.

So, to save you from the details of researching the best ways to publish, I narrowed in on Kindle Direct Publishing and B & N Press. Both options, although not *easy*, have been simple enough, and if anything, a great learning opportunity.

Designing and creating my book cover? Truly the most infuriating part. My hat goes off to all the designers and artists out there.

So, I worked a lot. Self publishing meant self editing- and as a full time high school English teacher, it felt weird to wear the hat of a teacher and student at the same time. I was blessed to have friends be my eyes when I could not longer catch error. I have many to thank for helping with the final edits.

In theory, I was ready to publish. I was ready to make it available. I began to have the mindset of, "I don't even care if zero people buy this damn book, let me be finished."

I knew it wasn’t a masterpiece. I knew it wouldn’t be the best thing I had ever written or done. But it was the start.

So, BAM! It eventually was out there. I was excited, it was real. I was tangibly holding my FIRST BOOK in my hands. "It Will Always Be A Cage" by Mari Monroe.

Then an even harder BAM hit me.

Who was I to publish a book? Who was I to think my writing was even remotely interesting? Who was I to even consider myself a writer!? Hello, imposter syndrome- I guess you were tucked away in my back pocket, waiting for a sunny day to finally make your appearance.

My mind began to spin- what if people buy this book and think it is absolute SHIT? Then when I write my second, third, fourth book.. no one buys?! What if this book instantly turns me into a laughing stock of the writing world?! What if, what if, what IF?!

After a few deep breaths, maybe a few tears, and a few phone calls- I began to, slowly, see things more clearly.

This is the risk you take as someone who creates. The risk of knowing some people will NOT like what you create. Maybe some people will laugh at you. There will be the adult bullies of the world who find their source of validation in aiming to tear you down.

But, some people might like it. Some people might resonate with what you gave the world and then they tell a friend.

It might never sit on someone’s shelf, it might sit on someone’s shelf and never be read, or it might sit on someone’s shelf with sticky notes lining the pages they loved most.

And regardless of how people receive my words, I still have some of the most loving and supportive people in my life. They still love ME. My worth is not defined by the 'success' of my first book.

I decided to put my value into the fact that I DID IT, rather than only valuing the outcome of how it is received.

So to everyone who has been buying, sharing, loving, and supporting- truly, deeply, thank you.

As I mention in the first pages of the book:

"This book might not be for everyone.

But it might be for someone.

That is enough."

So if you are sitting here, still reading this... Just go do it. You have my full support to kick imposter syndrome to the curb. Decide that you are good enough to do it because you are trying. Trying will always beat sitting it out.

I personally can't wait to see what you create!

Write the damn book.

It is no secret that when it comes to gun violence, the United States is the global outlier, the statistical sore thumb. We are the anomaly in an otherwise relatively peaceful developed world. What I wish more people would discuss is the idea that you don’t have to be anti-gun to be pro-sanity, and when nearly half of all the civilian-owned firearms in the world reside in a country with just 4% of the global population, it’s fair to ask—what’s going on here?

Let’s be clear: this isn’t a piece about banning all guns or vilifying gun owners. I grew up riding horses and learning to shoot a few different types of guns. This is however about the peculiar and deadly relationship America has with firearms—and why no other developed nation seems to suffer the same crisis.

We have the most guns per capita. According to the Small Arms Survey, Americans own an estimated 393 million guns—more than one gun per person. The second-highest civilian gun ownership rate? Yemen, a war-torn country, at a distant 52 guns per 100 people.

America’s gun culture is woven into its founding DNA—“the right to bear arms” etched into the Bill of Rights (as if founding documents shouldn’t be revised, but I digress). Guns are symbolic: of freedom, self-reliance, even rebellion. But symbolism can’t explain why Americans are 25 times more likely to be killed with a gun than people in other high-income countries. No matter your political affiliation, you can’t *like* that statistic.

This isn’t just about cold blooded murder. It’s about suicide, accidental deaths, mass shootings, and gun trafficking—a constellation of problems due in large part to the easy access to deadly tools.

As a teacher, I would be remiss to not specifically talk about mass shootings. First, let’s define a “mass shooting” as four or more people shot, not including the shooter. By that metric, America has seen more than 600 mass shootings per year since 2020. That’s almost two a day.

In countries like the UK, Japan, Australia, or Germany, mass shootings are rare enough to be national events that spark immediate political action. In America? They’re a “Tuesday.” Better yet, every day I go to work, I fear for my life and the lives of my students. But that is easily overlooked as well.

Columbine, Sandy Hook, Parkland, Uvalde—each a place that became shorthand for national trauma. And yet, in their aftermath, meaningful federal gun legislation remains largely elusive, often stuck in partisan gridlock.

Unfortunately, most gun deaths in the U.S. are suicides—nearly 54%, according to the CDC. That’s roughly 25,000 lives lost every year from guns turned inward.

Another 14,000 to 15,000 are homicides. And here's the kicker: gun homicide is the leading cause of death for children and teens in America, surpassing car accidents as of 2020. Imagine trying to explain that to someone from Sweden.

And through all of this discussion, one common refrain that we hear time and time again is, “It’s not the guns, it’s mental health.” And yes, mental illness is a factor in some shootings. But if mental health alone caused gun violence, other countries would see similar death tolls. They don’t.

The U.S. doesn’t have significantly higher rates of mental illness than, say, Canada or France. What it does have is higher rates of gun ownership, looser regulations, and a porous patchwork of state laws that make it easy to move guns across borders—literal and legal.

Gun laws in America vary wildly by state. You can buy a semi-automatic rifle in Arizona with minimal paperwork, then drive it into California where those weapons are heavily restricted. Guns don't respect state lines, and there's no federal standard that effectively closes the loopholes.

Background checks? Federal law requires them at licensed dealers—but not at gun shows or private sales in many states. Waiting periods? Some states have them, others don’t. Red flag laws, magazine limits, assault weapon bans? A mixed bag across the map.

Imagine trying to stop a forest fire when each tree decides its own fire code.

Several states have enacted laws that do work. Connecticut’s permit-to-purchase law reduced firearm homicide rates by 40%. Missouri repealed a similar law—and saw a 25% increase.

Countries like Australia, which enacted strict gun reforms after the 1996 Port Arthur massacre, haven’t had another mass shooting since. They didn’t ban all guns; they implemented buybacks, licensing, and storage requirements. In Japan, owning a gun is possible, but requires rigorous testing, psychological evaluation, and annual renewals. Gun deaths there? Typically in the single digits per year.

So why not America? In part, because the gun lobby—chiefly the NRA—has long treated even moderate gun control as an existential threat. Add a fiercely polarized Congress, a romanticized view of frontier justice, and the Supreme Court's broad interpretation of the Second Amendment, and you’ve got a recipe for inertia.

Meanwhile, Americans die.

You can support the Second Amendment and still believe that a person shouldn’t be able to buy a military-style rifle faster than they can adopt a puppy. You can enjoy sport shooting and still support background checks. You can be pro-gun and pro-reality.

The question isn’t whether guns should exist in America. They already do—and they’re not going away. The real question is: how many more lives are we willing to lose before we admit that what we're doing simply doesn’t work?

As a high school teacher, I’ve practiced lockdown drills with students more times than I can count. I've stood in dark classrooms, pressing my back against the door, whispering to a group of wide-eyed teenagers to stay quiet, stay low, stay calm. Some of them laugh nervously, not because it’s funny, but because they don’t know what else to do. Others sit silently, clutching their phones, already thinking about what they’d text their parents. It’s a surreal routine we’ve normalized in schools, a ritual that shouldn’t exist. And every time we do it, I wonder what message we’re sending—that their safety is optional? That nothing will change? That surviving school is just another part of growing up in America?

More than anything, I worry about the emotional toll. My students are brilliant, funny, curious, and full of life. They deserve to feel safe in a classroom—not just physically, but emotionally. They deserve to focus on their learning and their dreams, not their exits and escape routes. When we accept gun violence as an inevitability, we send a message that their lives are negotiable. I can teach them to write essays, analyze literature, and navigate the world with empathy and confidence—but I can’t teach them how to un-feel the fear they carry. And that’s what breaks my heart the most.

Gun violence in America isn’t just a human crisis—it’s a uniquely American one. No other developed nation lives like this. And the numbers aren’t just statistics; they’re classmates, coworkers, grocery store shoppers, kids at recess.

Being pro-fix doesn’t make you anti-gun. It makes you pro-life. (Ironic, huh?)

Until we treat gun violence with the same urgency as every other modern epidemic, we’ll keep sending thoughts and prayers—when what we need are policy and a spine.

It is human instinct to hesitate when we are presented with something uncomfortable (ie. uncertain). “Why would I want to step into that of which I have no control over?” We wouldn’t usually choose a route in which we have no say or no sense of direction. To step toward uncertainty might feel a lot like losing free will- and who would ever choose that? That is rhetorical. Don’t answer that.

So whether you identify as a Type A person, or you’re much more like myself-- Type B+ -- we all have some varying degree of, “I need to be able to control X”. In times of uncertainty, that controllable factor, whatever it is for you, has now been taken out of your hands.

So what do you do?

Through many times in my life where I have felt as if so many things were out of my control, I have come back to a system that grounds me. I have to be ready for the ultimate challenge- to sit with it.

Before I start from the beginning, I want to tell you the end. Forgive me, for I am a teacher and backwards planning is my ammo. We start with the end goal in mind and work our way back.

So, here’s the end goal: acceptance (or being able to sit in uncertainty).

To accept matters of unpredictability, to accept an unreliable future, I must be willing to sit with uncertainty as if I were sitting with an old cherished friend. Let me tell you, it isn’t comfortable. You must be willing to sit down with risk, sit down with chance, sit down and accept changeability.

I remind myself this: I must be willing to notice how it feels, what it looks like, what emotions it stirs up. I must be willing to be friendly to it, and not turn a cold shoulder.

To get to this point, I must also accept the lessons that uncertainty aims to teach us.

Uncertainty is the birthplace of possibility.

When we think we know exactly how life will unfold, we unintentionally close the door to the unexpected. Uncertainty, as uncomfortable as it may feel, is where all new opportunities live. It is in those in-between moments, when the path ahead is blurry, that new ideas, connections, and experiences are born. Possibility only exists because of the unknown. Rather than seeing uncertainty as something to fear, we can choose to see it as a field of potential waiting to be explored.

Uncertainty humbles us.

There is something deeply humbling about realizing we are not in full control. We spend so much of our lives trying to build plans, set goals, formulate timelines, and create safety nets, only to be reminded again and again that life is not a straight line. Uncertainty teaches us to let go of our illusions of control and to embrace the messiness of being human. It invites us to surrender, to soften, and to remember that we are part of something larger than ourselves — something we can’t always predict or manage.

Uncertainty demands honesty.

It is easy to feel confident when everything is going according to plan. But when certainty dissolves, we are faced with our rawest selves. Uncertainty shines a light on our deepest fears, our strongest desires, and our true priorities. It strips away the layers of pretense and asks us to confront who we really are beneath the surface. In these vulnerable moments, we have the chance to build a more authentic relationship with ourselves, one rooted in compassion and curiosity rather than avoidance.

Uncertainty lives in the present.

When the future feels unpredictable, our only reliable anchor is the present moment. Uncertainty calls on us to return to what is right in front of us. Instead of racing ahead in our minds, we are invited to slow down and fully experience life as it unfolds. The present becomes a refuge, a place where we can find stability even when everything else feels shaky. This might be one of the easiest thoughts in theory and hardest practices to enforce.

Uncertainty asks for a balance of risk and wonder.

Uncertainty is often described as something purely negative, in my case it is often a source of anxiety or chaos. But within its folds, there is also wonder. There is the thrill of what might be. That can be both nerve wracking and beautiful. It allows the magic of surprise and the quiet possibility of transformation to enter our lives. It is the crack where light sneaks in. In learning to coexist with uncertainty, we open ourselves up not just to risk, but also to joy, discovery, and growth. Maybe with some bumps and bruises along the way, but what story worth telling was all smooth sailing?

I believe that for every step of certainty, there are ten of unpredictability. As soon as you have validated your feelings, taken action, and accepted whatever the outcome may be, you will inevitably be thrown back into a new situation which asks you to complete the same cycle, just with a different name.

The universe loves having us wrestle with the same problems until we master it. I wish you luck and courage as you continue to acknowledge that change is our only constant, therefore uncertainty a likely lifelong companion.