I have been working on this blog post for about a month. At the end of every school year, I write a reflection on the year. The hardest one I ever wrote was after schools were shut down due to COVID. Now, I am faced with another challenging one: a reflection on my final year at Sanderson—the school in which I’ve spent nearly a decade teaching. I’ve written and rewritten portions of this blog post several times, and it was hard to determine what exactly I wanted to say. At first, I wrote a reflection on the public school system in general: what was great (the students, dedicated teachers, etc.) and what wasn’t (political pressure, aggressive parents, the devaluing of our high achieving students, etc.). Then, I deleted that because it felt too negative, and I didn’t want people to think I hate the public school system because I don’t. It may be broken, but it is not bad. Next, I started to write a list of the things I would miss about Sanderson (staff/friends, my trailer, student council, etc.), but that post got a little too sappy. Then, I went in the opposite direction to write about what I was looking forward to at Gibbons (school spirit, college-like calendar, more planning, etc.), but that post felt too much like I was bragging. Then, I thought, I should just answer what everyone wants me to answer and get it over with. With a sigh but without further ado…

The question I’ve been getting a lot is “Why are you leaving Sanderson?” Note I have yet to be asked, “What made you take the job at Gibbons?” The difference being the first implies that Sanderson must have something wrong with it whereas the second implies Gibbons must be a better fit. I don’t want to sell you some lie about teaching (or jobs in general) and claim there is nothing wrong with Sanderson, but I do want to be clear that I did not leave because Sanderson was some horrible place to work. I also don’t want to spend an entire post having to explain the intricacies of why adults change jobs. If you are someone who has ever made that (usually) monumental decision, you understand that the reasons behind it cannot be boiled down into one sentence (or even several paragraphs)—even if one tries. I have a standard answer I’ve been giving out, but the reality is that my decision to move is layered. A student asked me if it was more money, and I told her it wasn’t. She then said Gibbons must be closer to my house. Again, no, it isn’t. I merely stated that the choice was a “quality of life” move. I didn’t want to (nor would it have been appropriate to) delve into political issues, my personal family life, school policies, curriculum, teacher support, or career goals. I don’t feel as if those things are really anyone else’s business—students or not. However, I also feel as though it’s weird not to give any reason at all. Therefore, to explain, I will simply summarize it in this way: Sanderson picked me, but I picked Gibbons.

The job at Sanderson was one I took because it was the one I was offered right out of college and, while I loved my time there (seriously, I did), Sanderson was never a job I “wanted.” They offered the job to me, and they were my only option for paying my rent. Now, with years of experience, I wanted to pick my job. I wanted to decide where I worked. It’s always been a dream of mine to return to my high school and work there and, when a few positions opened up in their English department, it was my chance. The bottom line is that this move isn’t really about leaving Sanderson or why Sanderson is a bad fit or what’s wrong with the public school system. It’s really about me and what I wanted and, in a lot of ways, needed for myself. It’s about what I think Gibbons can give me that Sanderson cannot. Of course, it’s also a huge (calculated) risk to assume a job can give you want you need professionally. As you might imagine, my choice to accept the job at Gibbons also came with a large dose of trepidation. (Or, maybe you’re someone who doesn’t get anxious about major life changes and, in that case, we are very different humans.)

Something that I have come to learn about myself in the last 5-6 years of my life is that I am adventurous, but I am not spontaneous. I enjoy trying new things, but I do not like change. For example, I am more than willing to fly to a new country and eat the weirdest food I can find, but I like knowing that eventually I will come home again and can eat Chick-fil-A when I do. There is part of me that never wants my life to change in any way, shape, or form. I like to eat the same breakfast and every day, and I am totally okay with that. I like knowing what to expect when I wake up in the morning, and I find any wrench thrown into my plans incredibly frustrating. This has made my life, both as a teacher and as a parent, incredibly difficult. You might hear me say, “Oh, it would be so great and fun and exciting to pack up everything and move across the country,” but I would also absolutely hate the idea of leaving. When we moved from our apartment into our now-home (only a few miles away, mind you), I cried for days. I struggled to pack boxes without feeling emotional. Likewise, I also felt emotional as I packed away my Sanderson classroom and drove out of the parking lot for the last time. As I drove away, I was gripped with a mixture of regret and fear.

I have to remind myself that, as I interviewed at private schools in the area, I prayed endlessly. I asked God over and over to lead me down the right path, and I specifically asked him for change—change that felt necessary in my life but also change that is scary beyond belief. I wondered, for a while, if I made a mistake taking a new job or, stupidly, if God made a mistake—but He does not make mistakes. My fear that this is the wrong choice is merely rooted in my fear of the unknown: moving from teaching 9th to teaching 11th, meeting new colleagues, learning a new school system, getting to know a new study body. I am moving from where I am known, respected, and comfortable to enter into an environment in which I am unestablished. I will have to “prove my worth” to a certain extent. If I could pinpoint my fear, it is this: what if I show up, and I fail?

Maybe here I should offer myself the advice I offer my students: trying and failing is not a sign that you cannot do it, will never succeed, will never be a master. Trying and failing is merely the hard work of learning. I am moving from master to learner, but I am ready to show my new students that you must show up, work hard every day, try and try and try, apologize for and fix mistakes (even as a teacher), and put forth the time and energy to be the best you can be. Learning and working hard will never not be good. Ultimately, I must remember that change may always be scary—at least for me—but something being scary isn’t the same thing as it being bad. Good things often come in terrifying ways. Take, for example, having a child. The first time you drive away from the hospital with your first baby has to rank up there in the most nerve-racking experiences of your life but, at the end of the day, you get to take baby home and, eventually, you overcome your fear of putting your child in the car and driving around. However, it’s not really magic—just like good teaching. It doesn’t happen overnight, and it takes work to get comfortable and to be a good parent—just like being a good teacher.

At this point, I think the thread of reflection on this year has largely gotten away from me, so I want to end with some advice for you, dear reader: take the risk—even when it’s scary.

That’s it for this year. I can basically guarantee next year’s post will be a lengthy list of what I learned at my new job. — M