Sunglasses Always Fit

Hey, you. That time of year again, huh? Where you’re a few weeks into the new school year and questioning all your life choices? Wondering why this is the career you picked? Well, hold on. Hold on, now. Let’s have a word. 

Listen – I love that you signed a contract for another year of teaching. This will be your fifteenth year! Wowzers! (“Wowzers” being something you always say as a teacher, something that one of your most challenging, but most cheerful students, will repeat loudly every time you say it, because he has ASD and is your classroom parrot, and it’s a darn good thing he’s missing lots of teeth and has a bowl cut and is obsessed with train schedules and super cute and loves you, because this very nearly compensates for the number of times he will open-mouth sneeze on you.)

Let’s take a moment – in the last fifteen years in this business of educating, how many students do you think you’ve impacted? This is hard math, actually. Because teachers don’t just teach a class of x students. We run assemblies, after-school clubs, have buddy classes, do recess duties, etc. So a quick estimate is about a thousand. That’s pretty cool. I bet some of them have written you an email, come back to visit you, tagged along to a sibling event just to see you. (Ran into your arms at Target while you were trying to hide the wine and underwear in your basket behind your back and said “you still smell like cake.” You had to scramble to remember her name as her arms wrapped around your waist, but she didn’t seem to notice as she rambled on about everything that she wanted to share about the last two years since you’d seen her.)

It matters. You matter.

How many colleagues have you got to know? How many stories – laughter and tear-filled – have you shared in a staff room? How many terrible meetings, misguided professional developments, assemblies, have you sat through and made meaningful eye contact with that one teacher bestie who keeps you hanging by a thread? 

How many hilarious text messages have you sent with a meme or tik tok or reel describing the absolute sh*t show that is your job? How many snacks and happy hours and long walks have you shared while you bonded over the events of the year? (Twelve years since you’d seen each other, but you pick right back up where you left off, catching up on the scant gossip you can gather via social media about colleagues and kids and families, snuggling up to watch “Twilight” and laughing at our former selves.)

It matters. You matter.

How many parents have spilled their darkest secrets and fears about their children that you have handled off the cuff? Confessed they didn’t know what they were doing and asked for your help? How many parents have asked you questions you weren’t prepared for, but somehow you managed to answer and ease their fears? How many kids have come into your room and felt a sense of relief, because it’s a safe place where they know they are loved and valued and looked after for a few hours a day? (ACK! – Always Carry Kleenex.)

It matters. You matter.

It sucks right now, I get it! But listen – Every year is same same, but different, you just don’t remember. This is on purpose. It’s evolutionary self-protection. Your family and friends remember, trust me (and if they’re smart, come bearing gifts of chocolate, coffee, wine, giftcards, etc.). God has given all teachers a sort of black-out of the first few weeks of school, the same way moms can’t really remember the pain of childbirth. This is so that after the long weeks of smooth-brain summer, we look forward to starting again with a new batch of crazy kids and a blind faith in our cause and profession. 

These first few weeks will feel like you’ve made a giant mistake. You will hate everything, everyone, especially yourself for deciding to come back to this. But I promise – it will settle. I promise – you will find your groove again, and it will all get easier. I promise – despite the ever-changing technology, the “upgraded” platforms, the developing curriculum and standards, whatever the latest trend is in education, the endless meetings that could have been emails, the shifting political climates – kids are still kids and they just need the capital Y You that is You.

When the wifi goes out, when there are ten rainy day recesses in a row, when the next pandemic hits, they will still need the You that is You. They will need the smile that You can put on with Your superhuman powers, and they will need the story time after lunch, with the lights dimmed, and they can put their heads down and listen to You read. They will need Your enthusiasm, and stickers, and Your high fives, and Your silly inside jokes inside the village of Your classroom. 

They will remember almost none of the content, but they will remember Your character and how You played Your role in their life.

Take a deep breath, a mental health day, a long walk, an extra bite of ice cream out the carton, whatever You need, because You are needed. 

And remember – You’re a teacher – the only profession that leads to all other professions. You are invaluable, You are amazing, You’re a star. So shine.