The annual back-to-school optimism. How long will it last? Ttrousers, the yogurt, and the hope of a fresh start.

I noticed he had written something meaningful inside the card. I saw words like “hard work” and “kind.” 

I pretended to read it, made an appropriately touched face, and gave him a huge hug. 

I tucked the card in my school bag for a time when I could act enough of a grown up to read, and feel, the actually words my son had written to me.

I entered the room and immediately noticed that a lot, and I mean a lot, of the microschool founders were from Christian schools in red states. I grabbed a glass of wine and a tiny sandwich and hid behind a wall. I took a bite of hot honey chicken and sighed—another space in education where I just didn’t fit in.

Summer after summer, my life was planned around Van Camp. I’d be invited to a concert or overnight trip in July, months in advance, but I’d squish my face and say, “Oof. Van Camp…” and I was immediately understood.

That changed last summer.

For most of elementary school (and beyond), I was probably a forgettable student. Not struggling enough to demand attention, not accomplished enough to win it. 

My report cards tell a story- it’s clear that I loved music (but not my cello), that I was drawn to words (reading them, writing them, AND using them to chat in class), and that I cared about being a good citizen. 

I also know that I wanted to be a good student. 

Being a teacher is knowing yourself and knowing your students- and trusting yourself to use all that you are to help your kids become all that they are. It’s sacred work. It’s work that Kelli did every single day.