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Someone left a comment on something I wrote recently. I had defined what I believe to be the real purpose of school: to produce independent thinkers who can articulate ideas clearly, write with conviction, read widely, follow curiosity, navigate disagreement, and build the kind of creative adaptability that makes them capable of surviving whatever life actually looks like, so that students will become productive, engaged citizens of the world, no matter their occupation. He responded to me simply, “You are describing an education, not schooling. Those are two very different things.”

I turned that comment over and over in my head, and it kept coming back.

It eventually made me angry, because I had never once considered them separate. “Schooling” is a weak definition of an education. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that the moment we accept smaller language, we endorse lower expectations, and everyone starts to act accordingly. Schools. Teachers. Parents. Policymakers. All of us.

Words have immense power. Call it schooling, and the focus is on attendance, compliance, facts, figures, and a passing grade. Call it education, and we are talking about a human life, about who a person becomes, how they think, about what they carry forward into every room they will ever enter after they leave ours. An education is alive, and we must collaborate with it. It changes and grows and pushes and pulls and guides us forever. And this isn’t just semantics. Words define the world. The words we choose to describe our experiences, our days, our work, cultivate our reality. We know this. We’ve heard it ad nauseam. And yet we keep accepting the safer definitions, the ones that let us off the hook.

My definition of the job didn’t arrive all at once. It expanded as I did, as a person and as an educator. What I know is that the job becomes humdrum and pointless if we don’t make it matter. I help students see value in what we do, and let them explore what they’re passionate about, so they repeatedly practice real skills. Checking boxes is an inadequate goal when we are talking about learning or growing up.

The fracture didn’t happen overnight. It got inserted into policy. No Child Left Behind started the lowering of standards en masse. Every Student Succeeds continued in that vein. Schools cannot hold students back when they don’t meet the mark. The stakes are gone. Teacher judgment, backed by evidence from real classroom labor, has been replaced with policy written by people who have never stood in front of thirty-two teenagers at seven in the morning.

The consequences extend beyond students. Language doesn’t just shape how we think about children. It frames how we think about teachers, too.

If school exists merely to supervise children, deliver content, and move students through a system, then teachers become little more than caretakers who carry out instructions, which fails to honestly represent the work.

A curriculum is not a script, and benchmarks are not lessons. They are destinations. The teacher’s job is to make thousands of decisions that breathe life into those ideas for a room full of unique human beings. Two professionals can take the same standard embedded in the same unit and create entirely different learning experiences. Both can be effective, but they will absolutely be different.

This is why teachers require advanced degrees. We are not trained to follow directions. We are trained to exercise judgment minute by minute. We have to understand how learning occurs, anticipate misconceptions, explain difficult ideas clearly, adjust when a lesson falls apart, build relationships, and earn trust. We constantly make choices that cannot be scripted because the people in front of us are not interchangeable, as much as the government wants that to be true.

Still, discourse about teaching implies that anyone could do it with the right packet and pacing guide. Society has demoted teachers to babysitters and learning to content coverage. Education got flattened to schooling, and eventually, we started living the language we chose.

Students were told for years that the guideline was enough. The last column on the rubric is true success, but the thing is, it didn’t encourage striving for excellence. Students learned over time that showing up is the same as trying. And they believed us because we said it with policy and grades and passed them along with a gradebook full of Fs. Why would anyone give more than what the system asked of them when the system never pushed for more?

Everything has a hidden cost. Schooling yields people who know how to fall in line. Education graduates people who know how to think, adapt, lead, and care about the quality of their work. Right now, we form a lot of the first kind and yearn for the second.

If we keep consenting to definitions that shrink our vision down to something measurable and safe, we will keep producing people who were never invited to be anything more than average and subservient.

Subservient does not change the world.

The difference between schooling and education isn’t abstract. I have felt it in the room. Schooling is default living, and education is soulful intentionality. Students have to see the threads you’ve chosen and why. They have to feel the deliberateness. And when they do, something shifts. It’s not unlike church. There is an ease and an intention that takes hold. When a student shares something vulnerable or stands up and makes an emboldened speech about the water crisis in Flint or the need for free healthcare, the room changes, and a deep reverence emerges. Time feels nonexistent. The mind slows. Everything has more detail. A collective flow state. The class flies by, but the resonance endures long after the bell.

When it isn’t there, the class drones for what feels like hours. Tedious. Students push back, and behavior issues emerge. Busy work stifles it and replaces purpose with completion. Eliminate the busy work, and you move the needle that actually matters.

My student Easton changed his own mind this year while working through his thesis. He stopped mid draft and said, “I actually don’t think I believe this anymore after writing with evidence and all that. Can I adjust it?”

I said, “Okay, what do you actually believe?” He proceeded to articulate the most focused, arguable thesis about the importance of coaching I had heard from a student all year. We wrote it down verbatim. He finished the draft in forty-five minutes. When there is genuine conviction behind the writing, it feels easier, but it challenges them radically because they become conscious in real time of their beliefs, their values, and what they thought mattered but actually doesn’t so much.

Shakespeare said “nothing is either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.” We assign meaning. And we can teach kids to do that, too. But the idea that schooling and education are separate is dangerous because it gives people the excuse to do less. Enter time fillers, worksheets, movie days, and a disjointed curriculum that bores everyone into believing school doesn’t matter, even teachers. It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy and kills the good parts. It isn’t enough.

I still think about my former student Gigi. She came to me as a sophomore, apologizing every time she asked a question.

I finally told her to stop.

“Asking for help is your right, and it is my job to help you. Every time you apologize for needing something, you sell yourself short.”

She kept asking questions. Eventually, I told her she needed to trust herself more than she trusted me.

“Listen to your instincts. I will look at it when you think it’s done.”

I encouraged her to join debate and take a public speaking course because I was honest about what she needed to improve upon. She did both.

Over the next few years, she transformed. She started a nonprofit. She spoke before the school board. She became the kind of person who walked toward difficult conversations instead of away from them.

She’s at Cornell now.

At her honors ceremony, she chose me to hood her. She told me I taught her to stop apologizing for what she needed and deserved.

I didn’t create her confidence. I didn’t get her to Cornell. She got herself there.

I just refused to let her believe she was smaller than she was.

A genuine education happens when we are honest with students about what they need. They listen. They apply. They do what it takes. They flourish. And it is available to every student sitting in every classroom right now, if we decide it is.

So what is the point of any of it if we don’t take this seriously?

That is not a rhetorical question. I want an answer. Because if we can’t agree that school is supposed to light something in a person that burns long after they’ve left the building, then why are any of us here?

A true education is the backbone of a functioning society. It is also its best source of hope. Where a person learns to think, to question, to connect across difference, to change their own mind when the evidence demands it. When we gut that, we don’t just create worse workers. We produce worse neighbors. Worse voters. Worse parents. A society that has forgotten how to think is a society that is very easy to mislead.

We can do better than that.

As always, take good notes.

Where have you seen education—not just schooling—change someone's life? Tell me in the comments, or discuss it over a glass of wine with your teacher friends.

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The more I read, the more I trust myself.

Part of reading widely, reading difficult things, and reading outside our comfort zones is the intentional cultivation of a gorgeous inner life. Books don’t always contain answers, but they teach us how to live inside questions. Rilke advised us to “be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves.” The act of reading trains us for this exact patience. It makes not knowing more palatable, and often that understanding is realized later, years after we’ve thrown a book across the room. Stories work on us even when we don’t realize it.

If you haven’t sat with a text that defeated you recently, I’d ask you to consider what that is costing you and your students. It’s easy, as teachers, to write off a student you assume can’t comprehend, or didn’t try hard enough, but reading is supposed to be humbling when you’re challenged appropriately. “Easy work” isn’t a kindness; it’s an insult to intelligence. Many of us need that experience now more than ever.

I prefer works that teach me, or dazzle me with the language and send a shiver up my spine. I delight in looking up new words while I read. The closest I’ve come to genuine humbling was being forced through a Middle English version of The Canterbury Tales in grad school. Insert hard eye roll. I was not prepared, and I did not enjoy it. But I came out the other side knowing something about myself I didn’t before. Being defeated by a text is an invitation to expand, not a failure of intelligence, which is more than I can say for a comfy read, although those do have their place.

Nowadays, I keep three on my nightstand at all times: a fiction novel, currently State of Wonder by Ann Patchett, a nonfiction book outside of my comfort zone or realm of knowledge, currently Walkable City by Jeff Speck, and a challenge book, a classic that will push my vocabulary and rewire my brain for various sentence structures. Right now it’s Dracula by Bram Stoker (a favorite reread). My reasoning for this late-night tasting menu is mostly because I want to stay sharp. As teachers, we have to.

Returning to the role of a student is an essential requirement for a teacher. Doing so reveals much about the minds that populate your classroom: how they may feel when being stared down by an intimidating classic, what they still need to know, and how to help them traipse through a new, dense world. Struggling with a hard text reminds us what learning actually requires, and it sharpens our eye for what students need and why. That awareness is what grows conscious, observant people, which is the whole point of education.

Some days I sense a collective tension in the air, and I open class with “Is everyone lost?” They scan the room for permission, and eventually admit they need help navigating the unfamiliar world of our novel, and we figure it out together. Going first is something I try to do in every part of my classroom, because I don’t ask them to do anything I won’t do myself. I model writing in real time, on the screen, where they can watch me struggle. It is tough and embarrassing, but they need to see that writing is demanding and complex, even for someone who writes online. If we ask young people to revise, reflect, and change, we have to hold ourselves to those same expectations.

It is a teacher’s duty to model intellectual courage through vulnerability. Not through certainty, which is something teachers tend to posture.

When my student Hanna couldn’t name a single genre she liked, I just kept giving her lists. Telling her what I thought might connect. I ignored her eye rolls and bad attitude. I hounded her, and she eventually gave in. I did it with such eagerness; I think she did it out of pity for me, but sometimes it works, so I try it with all the naysayers. I do it with excitement and am borderline annoying about it. My tenacious search for the right book illustrates my belief that she is capable, and the right book will convert her.

Not only should teachers explore fiction and nonfiction, but we should also access texts to improve our craft. Staying current on research-based strategies and discoveries in your field is not optional. I have several textbooks I go back to regularly. I often reach for them because I am uninspired and TikTok and the internet are overwhelming. It’s too loud there. It often feels like I am navigating a void of empty faces and self-proclaimed experts who are ready to sell me the next educational fad, when what I actually want is something tangible in my hands. Something with a history of success. I’ve annotated most of them. There are sticky notes throughout with my own ideas, and when I find them, it’s like accessing a part of my own brain I’d forgotten. Past me did me a favor. She’s much more laid back than present me. I return to them because when I am low, or in the weeds with grading and parents and politics, my own scribbles give something back. I see a passionate idea I’d abandoned and think, oh yes, I love this job. Rereading closes the circle. It gives me something to bring into the classroom besides exhaustion. It pushes me toward deeper reading, which makes my teaching richer and my dinner table conversation more interesting. This practice has steadily delivered the depth I want to emulate in my classes.

Reading isn’t just a personal habit; it’s a form of professional ethics. In this profession, we must be voracious readers no matter the subject we teach, because we work with people, and books are the finest education on the subject. Many of us are burned out due to class sizes, the disrespect, and the parents who treat us as adversaries. We can’t ignore those facts, and yet it cannot be the reason we stop evolving. Holding our ground on issues that matter will inevitably initiate change, restore our professionalism, and confirm our expertise. And if we aren’t readers, what is our professional identity? And why do we deny ourselves the same gift we are urging students to find?

A teacher who stops reading loses touch with the work. Much like an administrator who hasn’t run a classroom in years. Most educators I know were readers before they were teachers. We came to this work because literature and ideas did something to us first. Stop tending your intellectual life, and you will feel it. So will they.

I don't assume perfect conditions. Only that we keep returning to books when we can. We can't spend our days asking young people to become more while refusing to nourish the very thing that lights us up.

Reading gives us more language to express ourselves fully. The more vocabulary we have, the better we can articulate who we are as teachers, as parents, as humans navigating everything life asks of us. A truly good book puts us inside the mind of another person and dismantles every wall of difference. Ethnicity, religion, gender, race, socioeconomic status. It validates. It chisels. It gives us moral lessons we carry forward into the stories we tell our children, our students, our colleagues. People who understand the gift of literature understand something others don't: empathy. That muscle has to keep expanding as we age. If we put the books down and leave them there, we risk dying at whatever age we were when we stopped learning.

We all know the beauty of returning to a book after some time passes. It changes because you’ve changed. Lessons and stories greet you differently after you’ve lived a little. Books are solidarity in its best form.

Reading fiction is practice in imagining another person's inner life. A teacher who reads regularly is less likely to miss what’s happening with the student whose father recently died, or the one who just got back from the hospital, or the one who has stopped talking completely. That is the job. Read up.

You have a library card, right? Use it. For them and for you.

And as always, take good notes.

Show me your nightstand, or prove me wrong in the comments.

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You’ve probably seen the videos. Someone points a phone at a stranger on the street, or a fellow student in a hallway, and asks them to read a sentence containing words like silhouette, cataclysmic, ambiguous, and then explain what it means. They stumble. They guess. Some laugh it off nervously; some go visibly red. The comments are never kind. The whole thing is designed for one reaction: superiority, or at best, pity. Look at what they don’t know.

I can’t watch them that way. I think about what it took to get that person to that moment — still unable to decode a word they’ve likely seen a hundred times. Then I think about Delia, who sat in my seventh-grade classroom reading at a third-grade level.

Somehow she made it all the way to grade seven without an Individualized Education Plan (IEP) or any intervention. Her behavior was learned helplessness, and she used any excuse available to avoid work or leave class.

If she could do a task, she completed it at a third-grade level, and I’d have to sit beside her and guide her up toward the actual expectation, with 17 other students in the room who also required my help. Delia had spent years learning that if she stalled long enough, the work would eventually disappear or a teacher would give up in frustration. It was heartbreaking to witness her insecurities masked by avoidance and bad behavior. She didn’t want to look stupid to her peers, or admit that she couldn’t do it on her own.

I would kneel beside another student’s desk to conference about an essay and see her already standing beside me.

“Can I get water?”

Five minutes later:

“Can I go to the bathroom?”

Then:

“I forgot my charger.”

Then:

“I need a pencil. Can I run to my locker?”

She had an escape route for every expectation. But luckily, I had extra pencils and chargers. We talked one-on-one, more than once, about what it meant to not live on default. About effort being a choice even when the work felt impossible. She heard me, sometimes. Other times she stared at the wall.

In September, I referred her to admin. I suggested she be immediately moved to an intervention course because I couldn’t give her what she deserved while also teaching the other 17. Despite the STAR (Standardized Test for the Assessment of Reading) data and writing samples I provided, the suggestion was denied and ignored. The group wanted to try other behavior supports instead. Like having her try on her own for fifteen minutes before asking a question, and printed notes, some modifications typical of a student with an IEP, but all that did was cause her to stare into the abyss like her life depended on it, or she drew, or anything but attempt her assignment. It was wasting precious time.

I didn’t take it quietly. I sat down with the social worker and the counselor, and I told them directly, more heat in my voice, that this wasn’t working. That she needed to move. That my data was clear and so was my instinct after eight years in the classroom. They listened. They nodded. They told me they understood and could see how much I cared about her. And then nothing changed. They heard me and still didn’t act.

For the last ninety minutes of every school day, I carried the feeling that I was failing her, because the window to actually help her was closing and I was the only one who seemed to feel the urgency.

I hated feeling like I was failing a kid whose needs outpaced what I could give in the time I had. Teacher guilt is real and can be debilitating.

Class continued this way for some time. The other kids suffered a bit, because a lot of my mental energy went toward making sure Delia actually tried, understood, and stayed in the room, plus I wanted more data for the next meeting. I brought her up in another meeting in November, in January, in March, any chance I got, because I didn’t want her to fall between the cracks. She was falling anyway, despite my one-on-one time with her during class.

Her work improved over the course of the year, and she started to put in more effort. But she was nowhere near where she needed to be for next year. So, how did she get here? She didn’t suddenly fall behind. She was passed from classroom to classroom, year after year, while the gap widened. Delia deserved support years before she walked into my room. She deserved adults willing to tell the truth about where she was academically.

The uncomfortable truth is that Delia isn’t rare. She is one of many. There have been years when I had 4-5 Delias in the same class.

As an educator, I know the dangers when kids miss out on services. I’ve also seen administrators or parents deny the need. Sometimes parents do this out of embarrassment. They don’t want their child to have the label of an IEP, or to be placed in a certain group. But the whole goal of the IEP is so scholars can regain missed skills and learn coping strategies for whatever is going on with them. ADD, anxiety, depression, or reading abilities that make the curriculum completely inaccessible. Eventually, students should exit IEP services and meet the same goals as the general population. This doesn’t always happen, but it’s the goal. The IEP isn’t a crutch; it’s a scaffold that eventually guides learners to where they should be. But too often, it’s treated like an excuse to do less. Expectations are lowered, and the kid falls further behind each year. That’s how you end up with the videos circulating on social media post-graduation.

Of course, this is complicated. There are kids who, despite everyone’s best efforts, don’t rise to the occasion. Sometimes that’s the culture at home, the friend group, a genuine inability to see what an education makes possible. This is often true. There is always natural variance in any class. I’ve had kids who can comprehend post-high-school and elementary material in the same room, sometimes sitting side-by-side. My job is to push the high achievers further, grow the middle, and bring them up. Not necessarily to grade level, in a perfect world, maybe, but up. It’s intricate work.

What makes it harder: even when they aren’t performing on grade, they are passed along anyway. Because of a federal policy called Every Student Succeeds, funding in my state and most others is tied to graduation and failure rates.

**This system didn’t begin yesterday. No Child Left Behind was renamed Every Student Succeeds in 2015, but the pressure to move students through the system regardless of mastery never truly disappeared.

This policy has devastated public education.

When kids know there are social consequences for not advancing, they put in effort to avoid embarrassment. When they know they’ll be moved along regardless, the air shifts. Education stops feeling like it matters. Because if it mattered, maybe the school would actually make sure they knew what was required to move forward. But we can’t hold them back, so we don’t. They give up faster, are less likely to try, and sometimes cause problems in class because they feel unseen, confused, embarrassed, or disrespected.

Think about how young people who function at higher abilities absorb that message. It’s not fair, and it only deepens the culture of anti-intellectualism we’re all wringing our hands about, and broadens the class divide, the haves and have-nots. We have people graduating high school reading far below grade level, and then we wonder why they’re getting fired, dropping out of college, or disengaging from civic life entirely. Like, come on.

Each successive class achieves at lower standards, with some exceptions. Layer constant dopamine competition on top of that and you have a real crisis, not just for students but for the future of our democracy.

Every Student Succeeds, as implemented, is failing the populace. Period.

Students need the accountability of not moving up if they haven’t mastered the content. Most schools won’t even let us give zeroes anymore. We’re required to enter 50% for each missing assignment, which means a student can technically pass while doing less than the bare minimum. Every parent, professor, business owner, teacher, journalist, and policymaker should be very alarmed.

When an educator, the classroom expert, makes a recommendation backed by data, it must be acted on. Administrators too far removed from daily classroom reality shouldn’t have the final word. And parents deserve to know: that B, that A, is not saying what you think it is. Trust in our institutions is eroding, and stories like Delia’s are part of why.

The TikTok videos are yet another indicator of the issue. A crisis where young adults can’t read a simple sentence on camera.

The cause is years of missed intervention, lowered expectations, attention-fracturing technology, incessant dopamine, and teachers whose warnings go unheard, or ignored.

So what do we actually do?

• Teacher recommendations must carry real weight. If we bring STAR scores and writing samples to an intervention meeting, that recommendation should require documented, substantive justification to override, not a dismissal.

• Social promotion has to be back on the table. Passing each child regardless of mastery isn’t compassion; it’s avoidance, and they pay the price years later.

• Grades must mean something again. A 50% for a missing assignment isn’t a kindness. It’s a lie we tell scholars about where they stand.

These are the basic conditions under which a teacher can actually do their job. And we are running out of time to get this right.

But policy doesn’t change from inside the schools, and it won’t change if we keep having this conversation only among ourselves.

• If you are a parent, community member, or a business owner who keeps hiring graduates who can’t write a coherent email: call your state representative.

• Contact your school board.

• Show up to meetings and say this out loud.

The Every Student Succeeds Act is federal policy, which means it can be challenged, amended, and pressured at all levels. I have sat in rooms with data in my hands and walked out with nothing changed. So have thousands of teachers across this country. Our word, backed by evidence, is still somehow not enough. In a culture that genuinely valued education, that would be unthinkable. But here, it’s routine.

Our kids cannot wait for the next reauthorization, the next administration, or the next round of think pieces. They are sitting in classrooms right now, falling further behind, and the adults who are supposed to intervene are stuck watching it happen with their hands tied. It’s killing me. And it’s killing other educators, and families, and the future of our nation. It is our civic duty to ensure our future adults have what they need to live well in the world.

These conversations about policy can feel distant and theoretical. They aren’t.

They look like Delia.

I was able to speak with her on the last day of school. I got lucky. She’d been suspended for three days for telling the principal to shut the fuck up, and I wasn’t sure she’d come back before the final bell. She did. That’s also Delia.

“Delia, I know we’ve had a hard year. But you have grown. If you remember anything else I tell you, remember to keep reading. Read like your life depends on it, and things will come easier. Okay?”

She hugged me.

“I know. I’ll try, Ms. B.”

“Good. I’m going to miss you!”

Then she surprised me; she teared up.

“Thank you for helping me so much. I know I’ll miss you next year when I can’t come see you.”

“What? It’s my job to help, and you deserve it. And yes, I wish we had more time together!”

We took a final photo together, and the bell rang.

The kids who come after her deserve the same thing Delia never got: to be taken seriously enough to be told the truth. We tell ourselves we’re protecting them from failure, but we’re just postponing it.

We are failing them by not failing them.

What do you think?

Should schools be allowed to retain students who haven’t mastered essential skills? Should teacher recommendations carry more weight in intervention decisions?

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It’s 7:20, the bell rings, Ivy is crying in the back over a breakup, Kensie is at my desk explaining why she doesn’t have her journal for the fourth time this week, and I have eighty-nine minutes to somehow make all thirty-two of them care about “Macbeth.” Most days are chaotic and overstimulating in ways people outside the classroom rarely understand. It annoys me that teaching is romanticized as a “calling,” as though passion cancels out stress, or as though loving the work means the work is not difficult.

Teaching is a grind, and ease was never the point. Even still, I love teaching. There is a reverence at the front of the room, helping students borrow my passion for the skills I teach; I get to spend my days reading, writing, thinking alongside them, and trying to convince sixteen-year-olds that literature and old-timey language still matter. No day looks the same; each grading session varies, and I am tested without fail, which forces me to become more reflective and aware of both my weaknesses and strengths. Once a teacher finds their stride, the work becomes what it was always supposed to be: creative practice.

Most people outside the classroom don’t see what sustains a teacher past the first few brutal years. If there is a case for being a teacher, it is made here in practice.

Creative Control

Teaching provides an intense creative outlet. If the classroom reads as humdrum and bland, I know I need depth and richness to reinvigorate it. I research a piece of art to bring in some depth: historical paintings, songs, letters, or some strange relic from the time period. I may find an ad, a piece of propaganda, or even a TikTok comment section to let students analyze and jolt them back to life. Building curiosity is artistic labor. Curiosity is a muscle, and most of them have learned through experience that school requires them to “follow the rules” and keep it inflexible and sedentary. My job is to make them flex and move, and the possibilities are endless.

Sometimes building more interest means crafting better questions. One of my favorites, always, is “Is America a Dystopia?” We use this during our classic novel reads, like Fahrenheit 451, Animal Farm, and 1984, but this works with a lot of material. For me, iterating is coming up with fresh ways for students to analyze the real world or synthesize concepts. Other notable examples: ask students to analyze a new experience like they would a text, or produce a video essay on the topics and questions explored in their novels. There are countless avenues to make learning feel engaging, novel, and fortifying for students. Teaching keeps me mentally agile because no two groups think the same way. What flatlines one class electrifies another, so I am constantly recalibrating. The day I lose my creativity is probably the day I resign.

The Families

Supporting families as they work through challenges is a highlight of the job I hadn’t expected. There are times students bring questions home and discuss them over the dinner table, or when mothers start reading the same books their kids are reading and connect more deeply through them, like The Joy Luck Club. (Read it if you haven’t.) Parents have sent me personal emails thanking me for encouraging their child to ask them about their favorite books, or writing to share how their child lit up over a project. It’s comforting to watch parents navigate the teenage years with such intention, concern, and grace. During my time in the classroom, several parent conversations stand out because they have forced me to rethink and improve my own parenting strategies. Magic happens when communities function well together.

I have also watched contentious relationships between teens and parents soften in real time during conferences. Making parents feel seen and appreciated is just as much a part of my job as anything else. I care that families are close, that they value each other, and anytime I have a chance to promote those positive relationships, I will do so.

They See Everything

Students yearn to be engaged with intention. Most of them are privy to world events because they are chronically online, which thankfully, gives teachers something to work with. Almost all of them care about freedom and fairness. People say these kids are apathetic, unprepared for the workforce, and lack initiative, but as a teacher, I see the issues and address them head-on. I am passionate about raising the bar and letting students come up to it, and I’m delighted each time they do.

Students across the U.S. have staged walkouts when they wanted to make some kind of difference in their school communities. I have had students put together donation lists, write letters of solidarity and encouragement to others, write their congressmen, and protest. They care deeply. When I was a kid, I skipped class every chance I got, and cared way more about my social life than I want to admit. These things still exist, but the fact that they also try to take part in democracy is a sign of hope. Teenagers are not nearly as apathetic as people claim they are. Students are emotionally dysregulated, but morally serious, so they see things clearly and have some values hammered out. They are overwhelmed, overstimulated, cynical sometimes, yes. But when you put genuinely difficult questions in front of them, they rise to meet them more often than not, especially when they feel respected.

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Reflection Reigns Supreme

Teaching resists calcification. Students force me to revisit my assumptions regularly because each group enters the room with contrasting fears, humor, interests, blind spots, and emotional realities. It keeps me changing and accountable. Even though I am aware perfection is a useless pursuit (insert eye roll here), it feels good to be making progress, or when I feel like I’m not, at least I know the pathways to get back to baseline.

The job punishes rigidity, so if I stop adapting or learning, students feel it immediately. As a teacher, I learn something new every day, and I get to choose whether I learn from a student or a situation. Anytime I’ve taught a lesson, from the first time to the millionth time, reflection is the driver of my entire practice. I have to consider what worked, what didn’t, and what needs to be adjusted for the next hour, or even in the next five minutes. Once you get better, this is second nature, and you can pivot in the moment to something better. After eight years, I still like to put pen to paper about what I need to modify going forward based on what I am seeing in student scores, writing, results, and engagement.

Sometimes this process is based on human-to-human interactions, too; how I spoke to that person, how what they said triggered me, how I triggered them, or looking past the vitriol in a parent email and looking for the truth and the actionable feedback.

Meeting of the Minds

We’ve all been a part of conversations that feel so rich we don’t need dessert. A good conversation is sustenance and fodder for thought. It shapes us, reveals blind spots, and connects us as people.

This is a great metaphor for the classroom. A well-functioning classroom does these things without exception; students recognize their gaps, it’s rich, and able to sustain genuine critical thought. I know a class discussion over Frankenstein will be worthwhile when the boy with the Trump hat raises his hand, and the girl who just got back from the psych ward does too.

Creating a classroom environment like this keeps me sharp. Teaching has made me more observant in all areas. You become sensitive to tone, posture, tension, boredom, enthusiasm, insecurity, defensiveness, and curiosity. Professional hypervigilance, if you will.

I am perpetually listening to podcasts and reading articles; if anything in my personal arsenal feels relevant and I think it may layer in some richness or flair, I pull it in and make them find the connective tissue. It forces students to notice the learning all around them. It makes what we do count, and if I had to say one thing I try to do, it’s this: make all learning matter, make it meaty. Even grammar builds value. Sometimes, the simplest things foster appreciation, like reminding them of their comma rules or teaching a writing strategy that helps them see improvement in their thinking immediately. It empowers them. Teaching logical fallacies is possibly the most relevant way to help them interact with their daily life as a critical observer, and boy, does it fire them up.

The Lens Turns Both Ways

Students can feel when what they are doing matters and when it doesn’t. Teenagers are brutally good at detecting authenticity. They know when you’re invested, when you are phoning it in, when you respect them, when you don’t, and when you are wasting their time. This scrutiny keeps me focused and honest. Wins look different each day: a student finally analyzes evidence correctly in a paragraph, someone participates for the first time all semester, or someone stays after class to say, “I think I finally got it.” These moments keep me alive in the world, expectant, and paying attention.

One year, I passed out a list of opinionated statements for students to agree or disagree with in anticipation of the themes in our novel, The Lord of the Flies. One of them read, “A child needs two parents to become a healthy, well-adjusted adult.” Immediately, Malik, a boy who came from a solid family, spoke up. He explained he didn’t know what he would do without one of his parents and predicted his life would feel empty in some ways. He said he couldn’t imagine his life trajectory or what he would be doing today without them, so he ultimately agreed with the statement.

After his comments hung in the air for a minute, another student, Jamie, questioned his response. “Well, I’m not sure I agree. I understand why you are saying that, and based on your experience, that makes sense. However, my dad walked out on my mom and me when I was three. There are times when I wish I had a father, but there isn’t this huge gaping hole preventing me from participating in life. I think I’m doing okay.”

Since Jamie led with vulnerability, several others followed suit. One student noted her mother was in a coma. Another mentioned his father had died of cancer, adding, “I hope it’s not true because I’m still getting used to the idea of life without him.” Following this, we had a written response so they could track their thinking and how it evolved during the conversation. There was a respectful silence in the room as students organized their thoughts on the question. Classroom discussions sharpen lenses and impart lessons that a book sometimes cannot. The classroom contains a collective weight we, as teachers, can harness to help young people connect across the perceived barriers of class, race, gender, religion, or sexual orientation.

Teaching is difficult because you have painfully limited time to make the maximum amount of difference in their grammar, analysis skills, reading scores, confidence, empathy, and worldview. I am trying to cultivate virtues just as much as I am academic objectives. I have an academic objective, of course, but I add richness by introducing a life understanding or a simple truth complementary to what we are exploring academically. One of those virtues is the realization that no one is the “main character.” Other people have very real lives, and it is dangerous to use language that places your experience above the rest in an unhealthy way. I don’t always name it explicitly unless they aren’t getting it, but when I start seeing themes like “vulnerability is the bridge to connection” in their writing, it reinvigorates me and clarifies what is actually important in my day-to-day life, too.

The Students

This is the case for teaching nobody really makes. The students make the job worthwhile and, in their own way, are teachers too. Nobody warns you that students will follow you home like this. They ride home with you, sit at your table, follow you into sleep. I’ll be halfway through folding laundry or driving home in silence, replaying a conversation from third hour, trying to decide what landed and what didn’t, curious if he made the team after all, wondering if she found somewhere to stay after her mom kicked her out, thinking about whether the student who suddenly stopped talking in class is okay. It asks something of you that nobody puts in the job description — a willingness to be changed by the people in your care.

All it takes is one teacher who notices them fully, respects them enough to challenge them seriously, and says, “Good morning. I’m so glad you’re here.”

That, and a really good book.

Who was the teacher who changed things for you? Or if you're a teacher, what keeps you coming back?

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I wasn’t the best student. I did what was necessary to pass and got okay grades, but I didn’t respect my teachers. I constantly skipped class, got into occasional fights, left the building entirely, charmed my way out of problems, made a student teacher quit, and cared way more about my social life than learning anything valuable. It’s an embarrassing and sobering thought that I would likely hate myself as a student today, but it also gives me a soft spot for kids who are like I used to be.

I get kind of sensitive when teachers write off certain kids based on minor behaviors or even major ones. Things can always be worse, but with these kids, kids like me, it’s better to always lead with respect, protect their dignity, and make them feel welcome. They’re still learning how to protect those parts of themselves, so as teachers, we have to help carry that with them. If they don’t feel welcome or respected, they will just leave. They need to be in school, and classrooms need to reflect real life.

I ended up graduating early because I got pregnant my junior year. My son’s father moved away and served some jail time for drug dealing. I will never forget the one teacher who respected me and honored my experience. He didn’t avoid eye contact or pretend I didn’t exist. My Spanish teacher, Señor Curtain. When he found out what was going on with me, he pulled me aside, told me he believed in me, and gifted me a copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting. What he doesn’t know is that I read every single word of that book. It was comforting to have all the information I needed. I started taking my vitamins and drinking a lot of water, and getting more sleep, but I had no clue what I had gotten myself into. His gift helped me feel like I had some control over the situation, that I wasn’t a lost cause. And if he believed in me, why couldn’t I believe in myself?

What did school teach you about yourself—and was it true?

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The other teachers wrote me off. All the kids in school would walk by me and side-eye my belly, even before I was showing. It was uncomfortable to say the least. I am not writing this to act like a victim, because all the trouble I got myself into was a result of my choices. I put myself in dangerous situations, snuck out at night, was in Saturday detention every week, made friends, and had a blast. It was fun, the forbidden kind that felt freeing. Well, that’s what it felt like anyway. But boy, was I sobered up quick. All of a sudden, the problems my friends would complain about, boys, prom dresses, and where they were going on Friday night, seemed unimportant and inconsequential.

Meanwhile, I was facing down the final years of my childhood, and I had no idea. This was due, of course, to the lack of development of my frontal lobe, but also because I was convinced at that age that I knew it all and everyone else was stupid. I laugh as I type this because now, even as a grown woman, I feel like I don’t know anything. If something happens somewhere, I am always scanning for an adult “more adult” than me.

After my son was born, I adjusted well. I got a job immediately and started school. It took me a bit longer to get through than others, but I was okay with it. I did eventually finish and got my Master’s after that. Now, here I am writing about teaching, my favorite job in the world after being a mom. That one is much harder, though.

Over my years in the classroom, the kids who may feel like they don’t belong in other classes have belonged in mine. They were like moths to the flame. Students have an authenticity radar that is unmatched. There was something about me that told them they could trust me with their hard stuff. I got writing out of my students, good writing and strong work. They told me about their lives, and sometimes I could help. I was clear about how I know what they are dealing with, and I gave advice, and sometimes reported their behavior to the people in charge. I did my best to act in a way that honored their futures. Like anyone, I want them safe at home and at school.

One of my students, let’s call him Arjun, came to me his junior year and told me that he was dropping out.

“Ms. B, I’m dropping out.”

“Excuse me? Over my dead body you’re dropping out. Why do you feel like you need to do that? What’s going on?” I propped open my classroom door, and we sat at one of the tables.

“Remember when I told you I got that job at Walgreens? Well, they have been scheduling me a lot, so I really can’t make it to school that much, and I’m failing a lot of my classes. I’m trying to keep up, but I just can’t.”

“You know that’s illegal for them to do, because you are still in school. Give me your manager’s number, and I’ll get him to reduce your hours. Would that help you out, or would that make you uncomfortable?”

“That’s nice, but my family needs the extra money. That’s why I’m working. I don’t really have another option, Ms. B. I’ll be fine, for real.”

I had taught Arjun all of sophomore year. He made huge strides in his reading and writing, and he gained confidence because of it. He had started wrestling, but because of his family’s situation, he had to quit and get a job. It seemed to me this conversation was his last-ditch effort of sorts. He looked at me with a face full of questions, hoping there was something I could do. Arjun was prideful and was putting on a brave face for his family, but he didn’t realize the mental toll it would take to see his dreams fade away.

“Makes sense. Your family is lucky to have you. You’ve always been a hard worker. But still, let me just email the counselor to see if there is anything we can do about this. Okay?”

“I doubt it, but I appreciate it anyway. I’m gonna go to class and see if I can talk to Ms. Campbell about taking my late essay.”

I called the counselor when he left. She was able to get him enrolled in a work-study program effective immediately, and in May, I got to watch him walk across the stage and get his diploma. He told me no one has ever cared about him that much, and he genuinely thanked me for what I had done. He didn’t feel like a failure anymore, and his vision for the future was reinstalled in his mind.

Another student, Ellie, made the stupid decision to come to school high. My entire math class was high each morning sophomore year, so I understood the appeal, but obviously, that’s so not appropriate.

The stench was filling up the classroom, and the students were looking around to see what I would do about it. Everyone knew it was her and were staring. Ellie had been through a lot that year. Her life at home was rough. She had to watch her siblings on her own every night, and one of them was a child with special needs. Her sister was eight and she had to feed and bathe her; the youngest was four. She often confided in me that all she wanted to do was be able to hang out with her friends and play soccer, but her circumstances prevented those opportunities. Her parents worked nights and couldn’t afford help. I pulled her into the hallway. I didn’t want her to get in any legal trouble, but my hands were tied. Ellie looked at me, her eyes bloodshot and slightly squinted.

“I’m not high, I swear. Do you really think I would do something like that?”

“I can tell. I’m not stupid. You reek. Be for real, Ellie. If you’re going to smoke weed, don’t come to school after. What were you thinking?”

A heavy silence hung between us.

“Okay, fine. I’m high. But I’m here, right? You always say you want me here. So, here I am.” She threw her hands up and let them drop to her sides in the noodly way of a person encumbered.

“I’m always glad to have you in class, Ellie. But you can’t be here like this.”

Silence.

I scoured her expression, searching for a single shred of logic or regret. After two or three silent breaths between us in the hall, her nonchalant teen persona broke; she gaped at me, panicked, finally realizing the weight of her error.

I continued, “I have to call the office, Ellie. I have to tell them exactly what I smell and exactly what I see. That is my job. And when I do, they will bring the resource officer, they may search your bag, and this choice will follow you. Do you understand?”

I didn't want her to see anger in me, because I was truly mourning this situation and dreading the phone call; I needed and wanted her to see the reality of the position she’d just put herself in. I stood there for a long beat, giving her the space to let it sink in. She needed a moment of clarity before the situation was no longer in either of our hands.

Then, I turned and went back into the classroom. She didn’t. By the time I picked up the phone to call the counselor and the resource officer, she was gone. Because I was honest about what I’d seen, I still filed the report, but she was AWOL by the time they arrived. It resulted in a skip and a suspension for leaving campus. She never did that again.

I didn’t think they were going to arrest her; we weren’t that kind of school. But I knew that once the referral was written, it would follow her. Every teacher she had for the rest of high school would see that substance tag in her digital file. What I couldn’t ignore was that she was sixteen and carrying the weight of an entire household on her shoulders. She needed a way out of the corner she’d backed herself into.

Policy is a blunt instrument. It is cold and it is rigid. But a student in crisis is a complex human being. If we only ever apply the pressure of the rules without looking at the person, we just end up with a lot of broken things. The rules matter but they also require discernment. Kindness and discipline are not opposites. Done right, they are the same thing.

My son is sixteen now. He’s responsible, he pays his own car insurance, and he tells me everything. He has the luxury of being a “good kid” because his life is stable. When I look at him, and then I look at Ellie, I see that the only difference between a success story and a behavior problem is often just one person who is willing to look the other way at the right moment, or look closer when everyone else is turning away.

Sometimes, there are some students who, despite all our trying, we can’t reach. We can’t convince them to value the work of an education, but I choose to trust they will figure it out eventually. Hitting bottom does a lot for a person. Bottom is a bitch of a teacher, actually.

An education isn’t just four years in a building, it’s also the sixty years that follow. As teachers we preemptively train the version of them that can rewrite their stories as many times as they want to, and look at their younger selves with love and compassion. I am a teacher because someone saw a future for me when I only saw a dead end. I’ve come to understand kindness as a pay-it-forward system.

When I look at my students, I refuse to see "behavior problems" or "test scores." Behavior is neutral; it is just a symptom of other things happening in their lives, and it’s unfair to define a child by it. Instead, I try to see inexperienced people learning and persisting despite their complex and uncertain origin stories.

We often talk about “college and career readiness,” but we need to help young people train their muscles for empathy, self-awareness, and integrity then hope and pray they will learn. I want my students to be the kind of grown-ups who, when they hit a wall, have the resilience and the agency to write their way out of it.

I don’t have all the answers, but I know this: if we don’t protect their dignity on Tuesday morning, we lose the right to influence their future on Wednesday.

And as always, take good notes. And subscribe if you’re cool.

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You know the frustration when a song doesn’t resolve? I can always hear the note it should land on, but it never comes. A book leaves loose ends untied, or an important conversation stalls and leaves you with more questions than answers.

These moments are almost harmless, but they echo something much larger. Life rarely resolves cleanly. It often contains unanswered questions, chaos, and hurt. It’s uncomfortable to admit, but we are all moving in the same direction, toward an ending, and it’s unrealistic to believe every life will close with a bow neatly tied or a satisfying, cursive The End.

My divorce was like that.

There was no closure. I left my marriage with more questions about my life, my future, my past, and honestly, everything I thought I wanted unraveled. My own history, values, and desires needed a reevaluation.

After four years of marriage and a turbulent final stretch, I left my husband and took my two sons with me. We moved into my mom’s extra bedroom.

By then, he was convinced I was cheating on him.

He had set up cameras in and around the house. He would wake me in the middle of the night to interrogate me about text messages he claimed to have seen. At the time, I didn’t fully understand how he was accessing them. I only knew that he spoke with such certainty that I was losing my grip on what was real.

Overcome with confusion, I asked him where he was getting his information. Then he opened it and showed me. He had pulled my entire text message history into a single .rtf file. I was floored. Everything was flattened to raw text. No names. No numbers. Only lines of conversation, stripped of context and identity, and also editable. A perfect metaphor for what he was doing to my life and reality: stripping away humanity and context to manufacture a distorted narrative.

He was playing God.

It’s unsettling how easy it is to do. To take fragments, remove context, and turn them into something else entirely. He had referred to it as “the database.” All my interactions were reduced to a scrolling page of Courier New. My “see you soons,” my “I’ll be theres,” my “tell me more” conversations with friends were weaponized and aimed towards fictional phantom lovers.

I was fighting accusations that seemed to come from nowhere, built on fragments I didn’t recognize or remember. Looking back, I can see how he must have sat with this document, scrolling, searching, assigning meaning where there was none, turning incomplete sentences into evidence. Even after I left, even after the divorce, I still don’t fully know what he could see or what he believed he was seeing, and I didn’t fully understand how he accessed them.

Part of me kept trying to figure out what I had missed, if there was some way this could make sense. His accusations were detailed, confident, and relentless enough to make me constantly try to prove things that didn’t exist, and none of it was true.

At the time, I was in my first year of teaching, trying to carry the weight of leaving my baby during the day, and then coming home to survive his questions, the accusations, and the fights that followed. I spent my days teaching other people’s children how to read and follow rules, my voice steady and professional, while my own life devolved into a cacophony of ugly, disorganized flat notes. I would stand at the whiteboard with a dry-erase marker in my hand, wondering if the cameras in my living room were still recording the empty space I’d left behind. I don’t handle accusations about my character well, and living inside them, constantly, reorganized me.

At night, I would fall asleep already tense, my body never fully letting go, listening without meaning to. We had an old house, so I could always hear the creak of the floorboards just outside the bedroom door. Sometimes, I would wake before he even spoke, my eyes open in the dark, my heart already racing because I knew he was there.

Waiting.

He would force open the door and yell, his voice shredding the quiet, making everything suddenly raw and exposed. There was no easing into it, no confusion about whether I was awake. He would demand answers immediately, as we had been in the middle of a conversation all along, and I was breathless every time I tried to match his rhythm.

“I can’t believe I fell for such a liar. A whore. How could you not tell me about this?” while aggressively gesturing to the laptop.

The words didn’t land softly. They hit fast and pointed, and there wasn’t enough air in the room for both of us. I would sit up, disoriented, trying to piece together what he was talking about, trying to defend each fiction. It was terrifying in a way that’s hard to explain because nothing physical was happening, and yet my body reacted like it was. Strange how the body learns before the mind catches up. I knew I wasn’t safe long before I could explain why.

It’s so strange when the person you knew so deeply becomes unrecognizable.

During the day, he would make comments, small, calculated, and carefully placed to pull me back into an argument in front of our children. Performing normalcy for my sons when the world felt unstable and shifty was exhausting.

By the time I left, he had accused me of cheating on him with six different people. Some of the accusations were so detached from reality, they would have been laughable if they weren’t so exhausting. A woman from work. His friend. His friend’s brother. A random man. A fabricated lake weekend. My boss. Each claim was mined from scraps of misread text, from suspicion, from what he had decided must be true.

Reality thinned, as if I were living inside something unreal. I had stepped into a version of my life that didn’t belong to me. It felt like I was watching a movie of myself wandering through my day-to-day life. I was worried for my future. I started thinking in contingencies. What would I do if I had to leave quickly? Where would I go? How much money did I have access to? It was all wrong.

I reached out to his parents, trying to explain how he wasn’t himself. I was convinced he was having a psychotic break, and maybe he had developed schizophrenia. They didn’t believe me at first. Eventually, I recorded a video of him during one of his outbursts so they could see it for themselves.

His mom cried.

And then, in November of 2019, just before the world shut down, I left him. I left because nothing made sense anymore, and I needed space outside of the chaos to evaluate things, somewhere I could breathe, and just be. I slept on my mom’s couch or the living room floor for a year. I knew what it meant to have somewhere safe to land. Where we were cared for and could finally rest. Somehow, we made it to school each day. Teaching was my escape from my reality.

The day after Christmas, he told us he had been smoking meth. His admission should have answered everything for me. It should have explained the cameras, the database, and the midnight yelling. Instead, I faced a new, heavy, uglier realization of my own ignorance.

Even then, there was no closure, and I don’t believe there ever will be.

He told me he was driven to drugs because I was cheating. That he didn’t feel good enough for me. That I was the reason things unraveled for him, a message he hammered in different ways, over and over.

It took me years and a lot of therapy to internalize that it wasn’t my fault. I’m not perfect, but I don’t think it would have made a difference. Based on his behavior after we separated—emptying my bank account, refusing rehab—his character was clear. I wanted him to provide the resolution. Eventually, I realized sometimes the music stops, and the rest of life is lived in the silence that follows. He made his choices.

There was no final conversation where things made sense. I wanted accountability, an apology, and understanding. I wanted someone to say, “This is what happened, and this is why,” so I could place it somewhere in my life and move on.

But that didn’t happen. What I got instead was silence instead of answers, blame instead of accountability, and a version of the story that tried to make me responsible for things I did not do. Over time, I began to absorb a truth I had resisted: Closure is not something other people give you. It’s something you build, piece by piece, from what’s left.

In a recent article, Kate Bowler, one of my favorite authors and speakers on this earth, shared a quote from poet Rainer Maria Rilke in Letters to a Young Poet:

“Be patient towards all that is unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms, like books written in a foreign tongue. Do not now strive to uncover answers: they cannot be given you because you have not been able to live them. And what matters is to live everything. Live the questions for now. Perhaps then you will gradually, without noticing it, live your way into the answer.”

Questions, lack of closure, and impatience can teach us and chisel us into stronger people. I’m not sure if all my unanswered questions have made me the best possible person, or even the strongest version of myself, but I do know my experiences are my teachers. It’s unrealistic to expect such tidy living. Life is ugly, hard, and disorienting. I like the idea of living in an empty, silent note of resolve—one only I can give myself—and being grateful I have a chance to write my experiences, even with all the lessons I never wanted.

A Note on Where We Are Now

Looking back on those years feels like watching a movie of someone else’s life, largely because of how much has changed. I am still teaching, but my job is no longer my escape from my life, it’s just a welcome addition of joy.

Today, I am happily remarried to a man I truly adore, and we’ve built a home that is a genuine sanctuary. My ex-husband is clean now, and against all the odds, we have developed a healthy, solid co-parenting relationship for our son. I also remain very close with his parents; they were the ones who stood by me when everything was unravelling, and they remain a vital part of my life.

If you have a friend who is currently navigating a difficult divorce, or someone who is struggling to find closure in an unresolved story, please share this with them. Sometimes knowing someone else lived through a similar experience, makes the silence feel a little less lonely.

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Liz Gilbert describes an idea in the most beautiful and humble way. She believes “ideas are a disembodied energy that wants to manifest.” She goes on to say that ideas need a collaborative human partner who will commit time and energy to bring them “out of the ether and into the realm of the actual,” and that the human partner needs the courage to agree.

This is how I have come to think about advice. It’s a weird, almost magical presence that hangs around, and once you are ready to receive it, understanding settles… often in an unsettling way. But it comes, and you get that life-changing epiphany that will stay with you and guide your future decisions.

Below, I’ve included pieces of advice that I once resisted but now look back on and understand with more clarity. Over time, I’ve developed a deep appreciation for the people who said the hard things when I needed to hear them.

Kill your darlings.

I have had to do this with my own life. I held onto a “darling” version of my twenties that included a specific house and a specific marriage. It was a lovely story, but it was not the right one. A story for another time.

A satisfying arc where everything builds toward a milestone worth posting sounds good on the surface, but that is where it remains. It’s not a crime to want life to feel polished. I still do, sometimes. I have lived for 33 years, and I could not have predicted half of it. I’ve resisted this advice because I like to think that things will resolve, that my life will be gorgeous and shiny, and that my hair and makeup will look good most of the time, and everything I write will be resonant and good. It’s comical, really.

Nothing I write is ever perfect, and I find that holding too tightly to an initial vision of a piece makes the reality fall flat. There comes a point where you have to stop protecting what you hoped it would be and look at it for what it actually is. Sylvia Plath wrote about figs rotting on a tree because she was fearful of choosing wrong. The real tragedy is clinging to a story that is no longer meant to be. Letting it go makes room for something that fits, something that makes sense, something that feels fresh.

Let the other ones rot.

Once I stop being precious about how the story was supposed to look, the rewrite becomes something I can work with. Thank God for a blank page.

Tend to the ordinary.

I’m aware how much the mundane matters, but it’s difficult when I’m feeling overwhelmed or down. Taking care of myself, my space, and my people is at the heart of everything, and it’s simple to overlook. Sometimes the smallest reset is the only one available, like just organizing a drawer, reading a book, or drinking the water. Trust me, it makes a difference.

Working with my hands and getting a little dirty helps, too. It’s insane how much joy there is in potting a new plant or weeding my garden. It reminds me that the fancy vacations everyone else seems to be going on aren’t the end-all, be-all of happiness. Gratefulness isn’t easy when everything around us is louder, faster, and more impressive.

I can be content in my kitchen with a glass of red wine, my sons chatting with me about their day, folding towels, or catching up with my husband if I choose to be.

If you rush the work, the work will expose you.

I have tried to outrun the process more times than I can count, and every time, it’s glaringly obvious. The writing feels thin and forced. There have been many nights when I am simply tired of the labor and annoyed with my own voice, so I try to push the piece toward a fictitious end. The next morning, when I return with more awareness, I often find I no longer agree with my own takes or descriptions.

If you have achieved enough to give yourself a foundation for tomorrow, let the work lie. Returning later ensures the truth of the story doesn’t get twisted into a lie just because you were exhausted. Patience is a technical skill. There is no shortcut to depth. You either pay with your time now or with your integrity later.

Grade yourself on the process, not the product.

The middle of anything is the hardest part, for example, the “Wednesdays” of a project or a life. Life stalls, or seems more complicated, especially when the end isn’t in sight. If you’re not seeing progress— if you can’t agree on the terms of a divorce, you’re not gaining traction, attention, or making money. This is when people often give up. The middle is where the majority of life is lived, and if I put my attention on a goal I want later or must have now and don’t, then I will never be happy. I like to say that if I truly gave it my all, I win no matter what. What comes later is never going to give me the happiness I could’ve had in the middle.

Don’t take a bath in your sorrow.

Don’t stay there too long. I’ve definitely had moments where I wanted to sit in my sadness, wallow, and let everything feel unfair, but it never leads anywhere good. Hardship comes for everyone, and while pain is real, it isn’t singular.

The constant “main character” energy is dangerous. It perverts self-love into a fixation that keeps the focus on you. I get why it’s appealing. We’re constantly told to center ourselves, to protect our peace, and to make everything about our growth. The problem is it turns reflection into obsessiveness. It doesn’t feel good in the body to be so inward-focused.

Conflict grows integrity, unfortunately, and doing something kind for someone else when I feel like I can’t get out of bed is where strength and wisdom are built: in the moments where you know you can’t, and yet you do. Acting with kindness when I am empty or low reminds me I am more than my circumstances. It reorients me back to who I am and who I want to be.

We can’t make our problems belong to others. Community demands that we see others clearly. Process your feelings and try your best to move on, smarter and better armed. If I didn’t have to get up and teach every day or care for my kids, I wouldn’t have survived my divorce.

Your best work is a floor, not a ceiling.

There is a persistent lie that creativity is a finite resource we must ration. The opposite is true. Stockpiling your best work for a hypothetical future creates a stagnant mind and takes up unnecessary brain space. I used to carry a mental list of stories and lessons I was saving for a later point, a more important project, or a bigger stage.

I didn’t realize what I thought was my best idea was actually acting as a block. Once I started trusting my mind to be agile, everything changed. Spending your best insight now is exactly what clears the space for better material to arrive tomorrow. I treat my work like a daily baptism. I let the old ideas go so I can come up clean and refreshed. I have to let it pour out of me completely to keep the current moving. Once I stopped hoarding, my writing in education and here on Substack finally started to flow.

Keep a book on deck.

A book on the desk, on my nightstand, or in my bag is so wholesome and hopeful. It makes me giddy. Also, you’re more likely to read more if you have a “to be read” list, so start building your stack. A book asks more of you, but it gives more back and in droves. Even a few pages can change the direction of a day, especially if you’ve been scrolling.

Don’t let things just happen to you.

I’ve always hated that phrase about life being a wild ride. It is, but people on rides don’t make things happen; they just hold on. That’s not me. It’s easy to get let down by the small issues or situations that seem impossible, but we have to act to make change.

When I realized I’d be getting a divorce, I signed up for copywriting classes, so I could make more money ghostwriting. That was something I could control when everything seemed to be falling apart. Life will continue happening to you unless you move out of the way and closer to the path you’ve always wanted. Participation is non-negotiable, but isn’t that good news?

Some things have to “winter.”

I hate this one. I hate feeling aimless or like I’m in the in-between, but there are seasons where nothing blooms and nothing moves. You just get muted, dead, empty space that feels endless. I’m still resisting the urge to ruminate or overthink when this happens. That knee-jerk impulse usually does more harm than good. Most growth occurs beneath the surface, and your job is to leave it alone until the time is right. Eventually, and in time, you’ll know what to do.

Don’t give the honeymoon period power over the rest of your life.

In the beginning, things were good. Famous last words. People, careers, and relationships evolve, and it’s easy to get hung up on the original spark rather than the creative and humbling work it takes to maintain a meaningful, edifying, and timeless connection.

This goes for relationships, faith, and careers. A helpful line of questioning might be: What was different at the beginning that I want to get back? Maybe it’s me? I’ve changed, so I need different inputs to revive the part of me I’m missing. There are always creative interventions for dull energy. Find some. We can’t measure anything based strictly on feelings. Feelings are data, not answers.

We have this tendency to romanticize the past, but it wasn’t that great, which is why it’s in the past.

The default is to romanticize earlier versions of yourself or life when you are far removed, but memory is doing you no favors. There’s a reason eyewitness testimony doesn’t always hold up. Every time you take a memory off the shelf, you’ve already started to change it. Nostalgia feeds on that edited version. It’s fine to be nostalgic, but living there will cause us to miss what’s right in front of us and stifle our hope for the future. Idealizing and revising the past breeds different demons.

Circumstances change. I am not an “everything happens for a reason” person; I am more of an “everything happens, and then we deal with it” person. We grow within the consequences or benefits in real time, often while paying bills or doing taxes. There are ways I am stronger now because of what has happened to me. I’ve learned things the hard way that I never would have learned otherwise.

Everything always works out.

My husband says this when I am spiraling or when we are in what seem to be dire straits. The first time he said this to me, I pressed him: “How can you even say that with what you’ve been through?” I’ve been through a lot in the last decade, so it’s hard to see that the chaos often does work out in the end. But it’s true. And it still catches me off guard every time it happens. I don’t believe in a magical resolution, but I do believe we are capable of making something out of what doesn’t resolve neatly, and it doesn’t always need to have meaning or be some life lesson, either.

The people who have changed my life the most are not the ones who comforted me. I am nowhere near perfect. I still ruminate, I still overcomplicate the simplest griefs, and I still occasionally fill the house with a frantic energy for some reason. But I am profoundly indebted to the people who refuse to let me stay where I don’t want to be. I have a deep respect for the ones who call me up and call me out, the ones who value my integrity more than my comfort.

We spend so much time trying to polish our stories before they’re even finished, terrified that the middle will look disastrous or that the “honeymoon” won’t last. But the actual realm—the one Liz Gilbert says we have to bring ideas and intention into—is not shiny. It is full of our dirty laundry, weeds in the garden, hangovers, stupid arguments, and unsettling winter seasons.

Choosing to participate in your life means it’s time end the idealistic examination of the past, and start the rewrite of your tomorrows. It’s about having the wherewithal to let a dead dream rot, so you have a free hand to grab a new book or a glass of wine.

The world is jam-packed with people who are just holding on, and we can’t afford it. So step off the ride, and for God’s sake, grab the pen.

I want to hear from you: We all have a "darling" version of our lives we’ve had to let go of to make room for what’s real. If you’re comfortable sharing, what is a story you’re currently rewriting? Or, tell me about your "daily baptism." What is the one ritual that flushes out the noise and lets you start fresh?

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I remember a book I read in college that made me so angry I could have screamed: Bird of Paradise: How I Became Latina by Raquel Cepeda. In it, Cepeda details a turbulent childhood defined by her father’s volatile presence. There were stories of physical and emotional discipline that made me nauseous, and moments where she lived in genuine fear.

The narrative eventually jumps to her adult life, where she decides to reconcile with him. Driven by the birth of her own daughter and a sense that her personal history was “unfinished,” she sought to heal the rift. At first, I was enraged. I couldn’t understand why she would subject her daughter to a man who had been so damaging. We are taught that boundaries are essential, especially in relationships rooted in trauma. But what unfolded was more beautiful than I could have imagined.

As they began to communicate, the weight of their shared history was palpable. Cepeda writes of the complexity of seeing her father face his own shame:

“I had to learn how to forgive him for not being the father I wanted, and he had to learn how to forgive himself for the father he wasn’t.”

He was apologetic, and she gave him the opportunity to “redo” and heal, not just for himself, but through a new, gentle relationship with his granddaughter. I sobbed. It stuck with me because it challenged my rigid definitions of safety and justice.

I saw this reflected recently when Dax Shepard spoke with Anderson Cooper on the podcast All There Is. Shepard grew emotional discussing the end of his father’s life. Despite a history of neglect and substance abuse, Shepard stepped in to care for him as he was dying. He shared a moment that forces the listener to sit with the complexity of a flawed parent:

“In the story of my life, I was the victim. He had left me, and I was a victim. And now I had this beautiful little girl and the notion of missing even two minutes of her life is so heartbreaking... and I went, oh my god, he was the victim. I wasn’t the victim. The thing he missed is a lot harder to miss, and I felt real compassion for him.”

He felt a sense of obligation that turned into an opportunity for joy he hadn’t realized he was missing. It suggests that sometimes, by lowering the iron-clad gates of our boundaries just a few inches, we allow room for a miracle of reconciliation that “therapy-speak” rarely accounts for.

My own father died this past summer after a 13-year battle with colon cancer. He faded quickly. I took him to the bank on Tuesday, and he was in a hospice bed by Thursday. He never got up again. I stayed at my mother’s house and cared for him, alongside my sister and mom, until the very end. We navigated a stretch of time that felt slow and fast all at once. It felt like an honor, but it also felt like torture. I was losing the man who read me stories each night, gave me the best advice, and was the gentlest person alive.

I cannot personally imagine the complexity of feeling that exists when a parental relationship is turbulent. However, I can appreciate the gravity and the immense importance of allowing these final interactions into our lives. If someone like Shepard can find a gift in a relationship that was once a source of pain, it makes me think about the doors we often shut forever out of a sense of self-preservation.

I’m not one to tell anyone how to navigate their relationships, especially as I’ve had my own share of turbulence, but I wonder if a deeper consideration is necessary. Our screens and social feeds have a way of offering clean-cut answers for situations that are rarely simple. They can quiet the kind of deep contemplation these moments require. It is so easy to bypass feelings of loneliness or regret by turning toward the constant stream of distraction in our pockets. But I have to ask: is it worth it to be generous in heart? None of us are truly in a position to decide who is worthy of a second chance or a final word, especially when that word might finally be, “I’m sorry.”

Generosity is often mistaken for weakness or a lack of self-respect. In a culture that prioritizes the hard boundary, we are frequently told that any second chance is an invitation for more pain. But the generosity Cepeda and Shepard describe is not about being a doormat, but radical curiosity. It is the willingness to ask if the person who hurt us is still the same person they were twenty years ago, or if we are simply holding a grudge against someone who no longer exists.

I think about the silence of the house during those final weeks with my father. The conversations were no longer about the logistics of life or the plans for the future. They were stripped down to the present moment. In that stillness, all the small annoyances of a lifetime evaporated. Life is too short to miss the years we could have spent knowing them as they are now.

Choosing to be generous does not mean we forget what happened or that the pain was not real. It means we refuse to let the past have the final word on the present. It means acknowledging that while our boundaries keep us safe, our generosity keeps us connected.

Ultimately, this kind of grace is a gift we give to ourselves. It frees us from the heavy weight of resentment and allows us to move through the world with a lighter heart. My father’s gentleness was a gift I didn’t have to work for, but I see now that for others, like Cepeda or Shepard, that gentleness is a hard-won choice.

Where in our lives could we stand to be just a little more generous?

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I am painfully aware that, as an English teacher, I can never compete with technology. I will never be as interesting as the newest game, TikTok creator, or YouTube series occupying my students’ brains. But I am not there to entertain. I am there to disrupt. My job is to interrupt passivity and bring students online, cognitively.

For the short time they are in my classroom, I am a designer. I am there to encourage a shift from “default thinking” to a conscious, creative existence. Breaking that passive state is task number one.

A student in default mode is one operating on autopilot, viewing a blank page as a problem rather than an invitation. Because they have been conditioned to prioritize the right answer over the process of discovery, they often lack a genuine curiosity and find themselves stuck waiting for permission or a rubric to follow instead of learning to problem-solve on their own, or take a creative or academic risk.

I am not naïve. I know the “lazy teacher” exists. I’ve seen the classrooms where the lights are dimmed and a video is left to do the heavy lifting, or where the curriculum is a dusty stack of packets from a decade ago. It’s frustrating because it feeds the “babysitter” narrative that I’m fighting daily, and keeps teaching as a secondary career. Real teaching is a challenging and intellectual pursuit. I refuse to settle for mediocrity in my classroom, because when I do, I am robbing students of their potential. I cannot let their interest atrophy when I should be fueling its fire.

It is disappointing to hear the assumption that teachers are “just teachers,” are “lazy,” or “indoctrinators.” It’s a gut-punch because it reveals a misunderstanding of what my work actually demands. When a class is designed well, it looks natural. It looks easy. But it requires anticipating where learners will disengage, knowing when to guide, and when to let them sit in the discomfort of a new task or idea.

To fight this misunderstanding, I have to look at the work through a more technical lens. The brain is an intricate system that requires specific conditions to thrive. I try to plan my classes using the Mind, Brain, and Education (MBE) framework of Dr. Tracey Tokuhama-Espinosa, at Harvard.

I am obsessed with cognitive load and the rhythm of retrieval. According to Tokuhama-Espinosa’s research, the brain needs recursive loops—specific intervals of time where a concept is introduced, set aside, then reactivated through a new challenge. If I ask students to recall everything about “rhetorical strategy” two weeks after the lesson without building a bridge, that neural pathway dissolves. In my room, forgetting isn’t a failure of the student; it’s a failure of the design. My job is to build the bridges. So, I adjust the difficulty so they are constantly operating at the edge of their ability. Not so comfortable that they zone out, but not so overwhelmed that they shut down.

For me, the goal of this science is to move learners from passive consumption to active participation. This is one pathway to snap them out of default thinking. This doesn’t happen by accident.

It starts with novelty—something just outlandish and eccentric enough to make them pause. If I miss that moment of buy-in, they will give up the task, and I will lose them. I might ask what’s in a character’s bedside table, especially a villain they don’t like. Or I will ask them to name traits they hate in a character, and then consider whether those same traits exist in themselves or in others around them. Or I remind them that the public square of TikTok and the curriculum in a classroom are part of the same human conversation, and are texts I teach them to analyze.

Design requires context. Before I ever dive into a dense novel with my students, I build a foundation of observation. I explore how curiosity makes learning “sticky” or analyze the social commentary tucked inside the lyrics of “Little Boxes” by Malvina Reynolds. I bring in the raw, transformative energy of Jimi Hendrix’s “Star-Spangled Banner” as a lesson in perspective.

By the time I have them open a book like Fahrenheit 451 or The Joy Luck Club, they aren’t starting from nothing. They are already tuned into the nuances of cultural identity and the power of a single voice. Once they’ve seen these themes alive in the music and culture around them, the literature doesn’t feel foreign anymore. They begin to see connections. And once they see them, they cannot unsee them. Finding novel entry points makes their work matter more. It makes it relevant, and builds empathy and observation skills. This is where reflection becomes a vital tool. After the class completes a unit or study on a concept, I build in a pause. I ask them to synthesize how a protest song from the 60s mirrors the digital dissent they see on their feeds today. The whole goal is to get them to encode the learning into their long-term memory. I look for that “sticky” factor—where the curiosity I ignited with an unorthodox hook finally settles into a permanent understanding through new and fresh associations.

Over time, I see the shift happen when their questions begin to change. They stop asking the “Default” questions:

“What does this mean?”

“Is this good?”

“Why do we have to do this?”

And they start asking the questions of a creator:

“Why would the author choose this specific example?”

“What are the motivations behind this piece?”

“What changed in my own opinion? And why?”

Ultimately, they have to think. They will, of course, write traditional essays, but I also offer alternatives like a video essay—an opportunity to translate their opinions and connections into a visually appealing and structured argument. I want our young people to understand and honor the blood, sweat, and tears it takes to create something that makes people feel.

Hard work has merit. It’s easy to forget this when students complain or think the work is pointless, but it’s also why some people don’t see teachers as professionals. When I give in and switch the goal from critical thinking to entertainment, I am appealing to the wrong audience. Everything doesn’t need to be as entertaining as a TikTok, but it does need to be intriguing and force them to reevaluate things. When you adopt the belief that teaching is your civic duty and learning is theirs, the stakes increase in a good way.

This shift in a student’s inquiry isn’t just an academic win; it is a civic necessity. A disengaged mind is easier to influence, easier to control, and less likely to question the logical fallacies and emotional manipulation ruling the comment sections of their lives. We aren’t just teaching them to read books; we are teaching them to read the world before the world reads them.. Benjamin Franklin reminds us that, “the world is full of people who stopped learning at twenty-five but won’t be buried until seventy-five.” Our democracy depends on discerners and questioners. It depends on people who can translate experience into language and navigate the rhetoric of a loud, confusing world. I’ve explored this danger before in “Who Is Thinking For You?”, where I look at how easily a passive mind can be outsourced.

This level of mental agility is demanding. It requires me to pivot in real-time based on the energy in the room. It’s the difference between a “babysitter” who watches the clock and an educational designer who is monitoring the pulse of twenty-five different brains at once. Not assigning tasks, or busy work, not delivering content, but intentionally structuring the conditions that provoke, cultivate, and sustain thought. I am not simply placing information in front of them. I am sequencing, framing, and guiding how they encounter it so that meaning can emerge organically without me.

The public belief surrounding “lazy teachers” persists because the complexity of teaching is largely invisible. It’s the paradox of the craft: when I do my job well, it looks effortless. And yet, that perceived “ease” leads people to believe school is irrelevant. I have seen countless videos reducing teachers to daycare workers and dismissing education as unnecessary. It’s a narrative I’ve spent time trying to untangle in my previous piece, “What Is School For?”

If our democracy depends on a solid education system, then I have to start with the thirty brains in front of me. I cannot afford for teaching to be seen as a secondary career. It must be an admirable first choice. I was moved by Matt Brady’s recent piece, “Why You Should Become a Teacher,” because he challenges the idea of teaching as a backup plan by discussing the mental precision the work requires: “Teaching is the job you take if you’re willing to do one of the most cognitively demanding, emotionally complex jobs there is.”

I agree wholeheartedly, but that level of greatness is only possible when I demand a high standard of professional agility from myself every day. The culture surrounding teaching may be disheartening, but it is not definitive. We need to recruit the builders, the thinkers, and the creators who understand that shaping a mind is the most significant civic contribution one can make. As Matt puts it, “The future is not some abstract thing waiting out there for someone else to deal with. It’s sitting in front of you, thirty desks at a time, unfinished and uneven and full of possibility.”

The struggle to recruit the next generation persists because the perception has settled on babysitting. To honor the rewards of this path, we must reframe the job: teaching is a high-stakes, skillful profession that demands our best minds. I want to invite the critics and creators I see in my classroom to eventually take my place—not as a last resort, but as a deliberate, ambitious first choice.

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We talk about teaching as a calling, but what would it actually take to make it a prestigious 'first-choice' profession in our culture? Is it a shift in pay, a shift in science, or a shift in how we tell our own stories?

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I insist on a life that feels intentional, textured, and just a little bit odd. Because the alternative—a life that is merely “productive” is a death sentence and makes me feel claustrophobic. It’s also boring.

I sometimes have those days when everything feels static, and the usual excitement just isn’t there. My well-organized life, complete with eight journals, sometimes feels inadequate to lift my mood. In those moments, what I need is a little jolt of creativity and spontaneity. That’s when I turn to my weird sensory rituals.

These quirky habits are like my weapons against monotony. They’re slightly absurd things I embrace to shake off the boredom and take back my day.

Enjoy!

• Get a cold orange, not a Cutie. Eat one or two in a steaming hot shower. I don’t remember who shared this on TikTok, but it makes me look forward to hot showers in the summer and helps me taste summer when it’s still cold outside.

• Drink a crispy (my favorite word atm) Vermentino or your drink of choice in a piping hot bath. The contrast of the chilled glass against the heat snaps me back into my own skin but out of my mind… in a good way.

• Eat something sour before you start working. A lemon wedge, a pickle, sour candy—whatever you have. The shock wakes up your mouth and your brain at the same time. It’s a hard reset for your nervous system and your attention.

• Just sit or lie on the floor. It changes your physical vantage point immediately, and it’s good for your back when you’ve been sitting at a desk too much. Isn’t this just grounding? I love it.

• Read by candlelight instead of digital blue light. It feels old-world and sensual in a way. It’s hot and romantic, too. Anything can happen. Bonus points if it’s a trashy magazine. I miss my Teen Vogue days deeply.

• Cold-water squats. While you’re in the shower, turn the water to ice-cold while your hair conditioner sets and do 50 squats. Hold onto something, though. It becomes physically impossible to think about your to-do list when you should be getting clean and taking care of your body in the most literal way.

• Commute loud. Drive to work and blare your favorite songs like you used to do when you were a teenager, except don’t smoke this time, unless you want to. I prefer my nicotine in Zyns or gum these days.

• Go for a walk at dusk or dawn and look specifically for things that are overlooked or slightly ugly. A cracked sidewalk, a weed in a gutter, a discarded receipt. It’s an exercise in seeing the world without the “pretty” filter. Plus, you might find something good.

These are my go-to antidotes that remind me that life is too short to let a bad mood ruin your day. I refuse to let flat moments dictate how I live. Instead, I seek out those small experiences that make everything feel a bit more vibrant and real, and help me feel I have some semblance of control, even though I really don’t. It’s a perspective adjustment, and when I remember to do these myself, things do turn around.

I’m curious: what unusual rituals do you turn to when the day feels uninspired? Share your own in the comments!

Take good notes.

Byeeee.

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A long time ago, I listened to an episode of The Diary of a CEO with Evy Poumpouras. She is a former U.S. Secret Service special agent and the author of Becoming Bulletproof. She was saying: “When you feel stuck, lost, confused, or emotional, generate kinesis. Move.”

Movement, no matter how small, generates new information that can inform a better decision. It’s important to create progress and momentum. If you’re struggling or sad, or something terrible has happened, find ways to move out of it. Don’t take a bath in it. There is freedom in letting go. Sometimes you put yourself in more pain by staying still. Illustrate your fortitude. Don’t take a bath in it.

The world is scary and tough, and it’s hard to always know the right thing to do. It’s easy to feel tied up by the state of the world. This series is my version: not taking a bath in my anxiety. Not letting the horrors get me down and doing what I can to make the world a better place.

This series is my way of generating kinesis, because sometimes we need to just make a wholesome dinner, talk to a neighbor, take wine to a friend when she is sad, or take the scary step and go to therapy.

A Micro Dose

• I found this on a tea bag: “Smiling is the simplest form of peace work.” I want people to see me as a warm yellow light. Being warm and approachable, in the right settings, helps me feel more a part of my community.

  • I have formed a relationship with a neighbor recently, and it makes all the difference just knowing someone on your street who is a safe person and has been through life themselves. Thank you, Patricia.

• Some of my garden plants are growing back. I’m excited to see how full my catmint will be this year.

Environmental Support

• Open your windows. That’s it. Just get a literal breath of fresh air.

• Squeeze something. A NeeDoh is perfect. A cure for when your hands feel awkward or are filled with nervous energy.

• Paint your nails red. Kur + Dazzle Dry if you hate sitting in salons as much as I do.

• Wear cute pajamas. Put on soft pajamas and allow yourself to be done for the night. These are my favorites.

Media Intake

Articles

• You don’t have a right to believe whatever you want to — Daniel DeNicola

  • A sharp look at the ethics of belief. DeNicola argues that belief isn’t purely private. When our convictions ignore evidence or logic, they become a kind of intellectual irresponsibility that affects everyone. If you’re tired of the “my truth” era, read.

• Fuck Work — James Livingston

  • Despite the title, this isn’t laziness. Livingston questions the idea that our worth should be tied to productivity and asks what happens when we stop defining ourselves primarily by our labor.

• I am not a story— Galen Strawson

  • This is a high-level pushback against the modern obsession with “narrative.” Strawson argues against the idea that we have to see our lives as a cohesive story with a beginning, middle, and end to be healthy or ethical. It’s for anyone who feels like their life is more of a series of disjointed moments. It’s okay to just be without having to turn your existence into a “journey.”

• The glorious and the mundane — Diana Saverin

  • This piece is a beautiful study on the friction between our desire for an extraordinary life and the reality of the daily “smallness” that actually makes up our existence. Saverin explores how we often miss the richness of our immediate world because we are so busy looking for the “grand” version of our lives.

• In the Name Audio / Written Version — Pádraig Ó Tuama

  • A jolt of a poem about the things we do in the name of something else—faith, love, honor, belonging. Ó Tuama traces the strange power those words carry and the deep human wanting underneath them. It’s brief and resonant.

    Building a better world starts with small, wholesome notes. Be a good neighbor & share with a friend!

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Music & TV

• Friends

  • This is my comfort show. It makes me laugh, helps me forget the weight of the day, and feels like home. It was a constant presence in my house growing up, and even now, my sister puts it on the moment I walk through her door. Making the trip to visit in two days, and I can’t wait.

Songs

• Worth It — RAYE

• She’s Got Something — Greg Holden

• American Love Song— Infinity Song and Momo Boyd

Books

• Update: Just finished Station Eleven — Emily St. John Mandel

• The Current Read: The Year of Magical Thinking — Joan Didion

Administrative Work

• Plan your moves. Seeing the entire year at once helps me move toward my goals with more intention.

  • Baltic Club Planner

    • Open-dated and minimalist. Perfect if you hate rigid planners.

  • Big A## Calendar

    • Massive wall calendars that let you see an entire year at once. Ours hangs above our bed, so we actually plan our lives, get off screens, and enjoy the sun!

• If you’ve been here long, you know I can’t function without my journal, so here is the one I love. It’s an affordable version of the Louis Carmen or Paper Republic, but one day, when I go to Paris, I’ll get mine.

Nutritional Support (food/recipes)

• Easy Dinner: Tikka Masala Samosas

  • Quick Sauce: Stir together sour cream and chimichurri (Trader Joe’s jarred chimichurri works perfectly). That’s it. Tangy, herby, and really good with the samosas.

  • I usually pair them with a simple fruit bowl for something fresh: strawberries, blueberries, and blackberries with a squeeze of lemon and a splash of orange juice. It’s easy, colorful, and takes almost no effort, which is the entire goal.

Internal Diagnostics

• Journal prompts

  • Where in your life are you currently “taking a bath” in a feeling, like anxiety, resentment, or hesitation, rather than moving through it? What is one small, literal movement (opening a window, making a meal, a ten-minute walk) you can take to break the seal on that mood?

  • Reflecting on the “I Am Not a Story” philosophy…if you stopped trying to make your current struggle fit into a tidy “meaningful journey,” how would that change your immediate stress level? What happens if you allow this moment to just be disjointed?

  • Look at your immediate environment. What is a “mundane” task you’ve been neglecting (laundry, clearing a desk, watering a plant) that actually anchors you? Describe the shift in your headspace that occurs when you stop thinking about the “big” problems and focus entirely on the physical rhythm of a small, ordinary chore.

    If these prompts helped you today, consider subscribing. It’s how I keep this series—and this community—growing.

The Prescription: One act of micro-kinesis daily. Do not wait for the “perfect” conditions to move.

Refusing to be stagnant is an iteration of dignity.

Fortitude doesn’t have to be dramatic. It’s developed in daily intentional choices that ultimately make the difference. It’s choosing a bright red nail polish when you feel low, or lying on the ground when you need a minute, or just shutting up, giving a hug, and moving on.

These are the tools we can use to build community and identity in a world that can feel dangerously cold. I’ll see you next week.

Get moving & take good notes,

Moll

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Curiosity might be the closest thing we have to a cure-all.

The moment you think you fully understand someone, every habit, every belief, every layer, you’ve already lost something important. You’ve already decided who they will be to you, what they will look like to you, what you will see.

You stop looking. You stop listening. You stop being surprised. And those unexpected surprises are where the best parts of people live.

Think about the beauty of unexpected moments: a healthcare worker who finds joy in classical ballet, or a finance guru who belts out opera. Consider the once reluctant student reinvigorated when they got to choose what to study. These surprises remind us of the uniqueness we possess, and sometimes we need that reminder to snap us out of waffled thinking, when we allow ourselves to be boxed in by assumptions and expectations.

Curiosity carries weight. It is a personal virtue, but also a precious resource. It’s our responsibility to carry it into our classrooms and communities, because if we don’t, we misunderstand each other and create environments that limit who people are allowed to become.

As a teacher, I’ve witnessed firsthand the impact of these narratives on families and learning.

I see this play out in the staff room long before it reaches the classroom. There is a common practice of scouring a student’s disciplinary history before they’ve even walked through your door. By reading those notes and those labels of "disruptive" or "unmotivated" written by someone else, you’ve already decided who that child is. You’ve killed the possibility of being surprised by them. I make a point of avoiding those files. Unless a student’s behavior suggests a deeper mental health need that requires specific support, I don't want to know who they were to someone else. I want to see who they are to me. Leading with their history instead of their humanity robs them of the chance to start over.

Distrust in our public schools has grown as some parents, swayed by fears of safety or morality, choose to keep their children away from these vital institutions, or remove their access to books that reflect the actual diversity of our world—titles that have lived on library shelves for decades without issue, until now.

Any teacher worth their salt knows the gray area is where the good thinking happens in the classroom: challenging them to think deeper, to evaluate the values they inherit, the beliefs they hold, and the ones they pretend to have. Why are we so afraid of challenging each other? How many more times do we have to avoid discussing the important topics? I’m tired of being polite not to ruffle someone’s feathers.

It’s damaging to families, schools, and children to watch adults avoid hard conversations. It’s not hard to see what they’re learning from these actions.

Children mimic and try on different ways of being to figure out who they are. When they see us skirting around issues at the dinner table or in conversations with family or friends, they learn that order matters more than engaging with what is real, even when those conversations are necessary for building wisdom.

Public schools provide diverse classrooms, texts, and an environment ripe for discussion. Parents don’t realize they are risking their child’s own mind, when they pull them or disallow certain texts or assignments. As humans, we must wrestle with the things that tie us up. It is essential for our growth. Even if it is in direct contradiction to what we believe. In fact, especially then.

This need for curiosity is increasingly urgent as I observe a uncomfortable trend, one that threatens public education. When a leader openly says, “Educated people don’t like me,” it reveals something deeper: an unease with the blocks that build a healthy and safe society.

This current presidency fuels a dangerous anti-intellectualism that makes us fearful of differences rather than curious about them. A significant portion of the nation has bought into the lie that some people are fundamentally less than, or that they somehow deserve the cruelty they receive. When that message is modeled at the highest levels, it does not stay abstract, it shows up in classrooms where students mirror that same dismissal of other’s culture, religion, or politics. These days, teachers will avoid controversial conversations altogether, weighing their job security against the value of the discussion. When you’ve seen discrimination in real time, it’s hard to justify the risk.

The “top” validates exclusion, so the “bottom”—the classroom—becomes a place where students struggle to see the humanity in their peers. I am desperately trying to stoke empathy and eliminate apathy. Thankfully, literature lends itself to working that essential muscle.

America has evolved through the strength of difference. People bring unfamiliar ideas, beliefs, and ways of life, and learn to live alongside one another despite struggle. This moment requires us to prioritize curiosity and openness over fear, hate, and othering.

It’s disheartening to see an administration trying to force people into unwelcoming boxes. Policies of division chip away at our humanity. All of a sudden, there is no room in government to focus on what really matters, which is putting love, attention, and care back into the same communities and schools that have raised us. Eventually, smaller systems begin to reflect the same rigidity, leaving little room for nuance, growth, or dissent.

Our nation has always celebrated freedom and ambition. You can achieve your dreams, practice your beliefs, and find your place in a community that supports you, or so we say. Recently, however, I find myself asking, “What are we doing?”

We see students who come to class wondering if their parents will be home when the bell rings, or if their legal status will allow them to apply for the colleges we are preparing them for. We are witnessing cruelty in leadership, where families are torn apart, and marginalized voices are continually silenced, even in classrooms. We take steps forward and are pummeled backward.

I can’t stand by while information is manipulated by leaders with self-serving interests. This administration, marked by racial bias, self-aggrandizement, and hypocrisy, works around the clock to maintain power while disregarding the dignity of others.

I acknowledge I don’t have all the answers, but I do know this: education is my focus. This administration’s gutting of the Department of Education harms not only my students but the very foundation of civic engagement. When we talk about “gutting” these systems, we are talking about the potential loss of Title I grants and IDEA funding—resources that over 30 million children, including those with disabilities and those in our most impoverished neighborhoods, rely on just to have a level playing field, if you can even say that.

At the same time, the weight of this anti-intellectual culture is taking hold as students retreat from their own civic responsibilities. It is hard to watch, but there is still a defiant energy in the students who show up and push back. Students stage walk-outs to demand safer schools, use digital platforms to crowd-source community solutions, and show up at school board meetings to highlight local issues. These interventions aren’t always effective, and they are certainly not the norm, but they are proof that we haven’t lost everyone to the “default” yet. Thank God.

Discomfort has become something we avoid, rather than something to learn from. Can we please revive a culture of inquiry and healthy debate? I simply cannot understand why, when people are faced with cold, hard facts, they can’t let go of their pride enough to change their stance, their mind, their behavior, their morals.

These are all expressions of the same underlying problem. A culture that prefers certainty, control, and money over curiosity, humanity, and holistic development. We can’t let curiosity become a casualty, or we lose.

We need people who love their neighbors as themselves, who welcome the stranger, who care for the least of these, who keep an eye on the kids in the neighborhood, who help a friend when they need it, and who challenge their beliefs and hold them loosely, knowing they do not have all the answers.

I tell my students it is dangerous to live on default, allowing culture and niceties to think for you when you haven’t yet learned to articulate who you are.

A culture that values curiosity depends on people who are willing to question themselves and the world around them when it matters. It matters in the choices we make, in what we accept, and in what we choose to ignore.

Leadership was never meant to dominate, but to serve the people.

Watch closely, and take good notes.

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We all use the same language, but we live inside and wield it differently. I will never forget when my husband told me to “have the day you deserve” as we were heading our separate ways to work. I was offended and horrified; he was confused. He genuinely meant that I deserved a good day, but I did not take it that way. He hasn’t said that to me again, and hopefully not to anyone else since then, but it’s a good example of how personal language can be.

We all have words or phrases we’ve “blacklisted” because they feel like bad luck, or are simply rude, and words we “collect” because they make us sound smarter, more adjusted, older, or cooler.

Additionally, we all carry a set of private superstitions, a logic as specific and irrational as Novalee Nation’s fear of the number 5 in Where the Heart Is.

This discussion exercise is a way to see that kind of logic in real-time. It’s for uncovering a person’s personality and internal mythology on a deeper level. You learn the language a person uses when they talk to themselves. It’s something unique to do when the small talk has finally exhausted itself, and the second bottle of wine has been opened, because it’s more fun that way. It would be a great addition to a book club, a dinner party, or a wine night with a close friend or family member. (That is how I prefer it.)

Everyone needs a blank sheet of paper or a journal and a good pen.

Here is how to play:

• Phase 1: The Dump. Tell everyone: “Write down 10 nouns, 10 verbs, and 10 adjectives. Don’t curate them. Don’t try to be a poet. Just write the ones that are your absolute favorites.”

  • Then go around and share them, category by category, adding to your own list as you hear words you also love. Crazy conversations usually stem from the sharing, and sometimes you get so caught up in why someone loves the word “velour” that you never even make it to the next phase.

If the conversation doesn’t spark on its own, here is what you do next.

• Phase 2: The Prompts. The prompts can be mundane or specific. I like to craft these based on the people in the room. If you want to pull internal superstitions to the surface, you have to ask questions that don’t have a “right” answer. You want prompts that force someone to apply their own weird logic, mixed with some fun ones that will make everyone laugh.

Here are some examples:

• Words that feel like: Music, growing up, kindness, wildness, freedom, evil.

• Words that belong in the cathedral, the forest, in space, in the operating room, or on the front porch.

• Words that describe who you were at seventeen.

• Words that feel like an old, heavy wool blanket.

• Words that belong in a small-town antique shop.

• What words belong in a house that feels “off”?

• Words that feel like the first cold day of the year.

• Words that belong in a letter you’ll never send.

• Words that describe the feeling of being watched.

• Words that sound like a minor inconvenience.

• Words that feel like the inside of a crowded elevator.

• Words that belong in a group chat that’s gone off the rails.

• Words that feel like wearing a thrifted sweater that fits perfectly.

• Words that belong at the beachfront, the library, the woods, the top of a cliff.

• Words for your last relationship.

• Words that sound expensive but taste cheap.

• Words that feel like the “cool” aunt.

• Words that sound sharp enough to cut.

• Words that feel like an unexpected bouquet of flowers.

You can be as creative as you want. Ask the person to your right for words that feel like your last relationship or your bachelorette trip. I love doing this because it’s a unique way to connect; it helps you think about your memories and life stories in ways you might not have considered. This game pumps story and texture into a gathering, and I love it. There are endless applications. It can be as deep or lighthearted as you want. And don’t worry about being “literary.” If someone says their favorite word is “goblin” or “spatula,” just ask them why.

The Prescription: Keep a few of these in your back pocket for the next long car ride or a boring Sunday. It’s a lot more interesting than scrolling through your phone in the same room.

Try it and please fill me in. Seriously, tell me the weirdest word or prompt combo that came up. I’m dying to know.

Take good notes.

Byeeee.

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If you’re new here, I’m glad you found your way to me.

This publication is my open notebook where I write about teaching, reading, grief, faith, creativity, and the ideas that make life feel meaningful and more intentional. Some essays are about the classroom. Some are about books. Some are about losing my father and figuring out how to live while navigating grief.

I write things down because it helps me pay attention. Occasionally, that process turns into an essay that might help someone else think about a familiar idea, topic, or concept in a new way.

I’d love for you to join the conversation. If you’d like to have these essays sent to your inbox, you can subscribe here:

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Here are a few places to begin.

If you’re interested in teaching, learning, or creative thinking

Start with Creative Prescriptions.

In this essay, I outline a creative planning process I use to understand digital trends and ideas. It grew out of my eight years in the classroom designing curriculum, but it’s something I use in my own life as well. It’s for teachers who want to stay creative within a strict system, and for lifelong learners who want to keep their curiosity sharp.

Another piece that captures my philosophy is “What is School For?” Here, I explore what it means to be a thoughtful educator inside a traditional system.

You might also enjoy “Sticky Advice,” which offers practical wisdom for anyone who works with (or raises) kids.

The Word Game That Kills Small Talk: A creative thinking exercise disguised as a dinner party game. It’s about how we define the world through nouns and verbs.

New additions on the realities of the classroom:

I also write a lot about the misunderstood reality of being an educator today. These pieces look at what it actually means to protect a student’s future, battle the cultural misconceptions of our job, and hold onto our own humanity in the process.

• I Was a Mess in High School. Now I am a Teacher

• The Case For Being a Teacher: An honest look at creativity, attention, and what it’s really like to spend your days surrounded by teenagers.

• Teachers Aren't Babysitters. Here’s What We Actually Do. A look into what the job actually demands, and why the cultural narrative around teaching gets it so wrong.

• Who Is Thinking for You? A teacher's reflection on the fading art of curiosity and the danger of living our lives on default mode.

If you’re navigating grief, burnout, or trying to figure out your life

Start with:

• My Real Job Is My Life

• My Life Is Not a Mood Board

• The Jobs That Feel Like a Waste of Time

• The Death Doula

• A Eulogy for My Father

• I Stopped Trying to Earn My Rest and Finally Got My Life Back

• The .rtf File and My Divorce Story About the exhausting reality of teaching other people's children while my own marriage was unravelling.

These essays came out of a difficult year. After my father passed away, writing became the only way I knew how to make sense of the world.

Some of these pieces felt almost too personal to publish. But writing them helped me make sense of things, and if they resonate with someone else, then cool, it was worth it.

If you like journaling, reading lists, and thoughtful/entertaining recommendations

You might enjoy:

• An Overview of My Journaling Ecosystem

• The Recommended Dosage series

  • Part I

  • Part II

• Permanent Tabs

• Weird, Simple Ways to Feel Like a Person Again

These posts include books, essays, media, journal prompts, and small ideas that have been aiding in my intellectual and creative sanity.

If you like practical wisdom

Start with:

• Some Life Advice From the Women Who Made Me (Parts 1 & 2)

• 33 Lessons by Age 33

• A Case Against Brutal Honesty

• Some Relationships Only Make Sense If You Stop Overanalyzing Them

• You Don’t Actually Want to Cut This Part (But You Should)

These pieces collect short pieces of advice that have stuck with me for years. I love wisdom that is simple enough to remember but meaningful enough to guide my real-life decisions.

Those are a few good places to start. Take a look around and stay if you like what you see. I’m usually in the comments. Come say hi!

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The way I try to redesign my entire life every other week is, frankly, unwell. In the last fourteen days, I’ve considered moving to Italy, quitting my career, and rotating my living room into a different quadrant of the house. I also briefly revisited the idea of having another baby. It’s a no. (Mom, I’m sorry.)

I tend to hyper-fixate on a “total life reset” every seven to ten business days, and it’s usually something dramatic and logistically hellish. When the world feels too broken to fix, my brain tries to compensate by fixing everything else at once, controlling whatever small corners of life I can. Lately, it’s hard not to feel shocked and heartbroken by the decisions being made by people in power, and the total lack of accountability. Luckily, my husband is excellent at bringing me back to reality. Thank God.

But some seasons only require a better lip gloss. A rediscovered song. Or making sure to schedule that massage.

This is that season, for me at the moment.

These are the things currently keeping me regulated and generally pleasant to be around while the world outside feels so heavy.

Consider this a controlled substance for morale. Take as directed.

Media Intake

Songs currently on repeat

• Delicate Steve — Baby & Yesterday

  • Instrumental and calm. Good background music for everyday things. I often play this in my classroom when my students are working.

• Olivia Dean — I’ve Seen It, Dive, The Hardest Part, & Password Change.

  • I’ve been listening to her while driving and cooking. She is like a mix of Norah Jones and Sade. So good, smooth, moody, and down-to-earth.

• Sade — By Your Side & Be That Easy

  • Always good. Especially in the evenings when the house finally quiets down, or during my Monday evening baths.

• Cardi B — Outside

  • Sometimes I need to temporarily suspend my emotional maturity and make my inner teenager happy. Cardi or Nicki can normally do the job.

Articles/Essays

• I’ve been thinking about these two articles often. They aren’t exactly “light” reading, but they are very well-written and informative. I love a good reflection and argument.

• We Are Being Governed by Unserious People by Frank Bruni

  • Frank Bruni explores the state of our current administration’s lack of tact, sense, and professionalism. It is a validating read if you’ve been feeling similar. It’s embarrassing to be an American with these people in power.

    • “I’m sure these administration officials deem professionalism overrated, outdated, an enemy of necessary disruption, a brake on real genius. It’s for slowpokes and prudes. It’s fussiness for fussiness’s sake. Wrong. Professionalism recognizes that your job is bigger than you are. It rightly regards teamwork and discipline as handmaidens of accomplishment. It understands that a sturdy institution requires a code of conduct. And it sweats details, because if you get enough of those wrong, you get nothing at all right” (Bruni).

• Why bioethics cannot help doctors in actual medical practice | Aeon Essays

  • This introduces the concept of “moral distress”—a specific PTSD-adjacent feeling we get when our conscience feels violated by the systems we work in. It is Doctor Ronald W. Dworkin’s reflection on what ethics ask of him when his job can require him to cause people physical pain.

    • “Bioethics has paid more attention to what it calls ‘moral distress’, a concept created with the launch of clinical bioethics to capture what doctors experience when their consciences feel violated, comparable to post-traumatic stress disorder” (Dworkin).

Books

• This is Where I Leave You by Jonathan Tropper — I hated this. I read it in one sitting, mostly because I’m behind on my reading goals, but it felt like the author tried to engineer the messiest family dysfunction possible and cram it into 300 pages. The protagonist was self-absorbed, judgmental, and honestly, a bit of a misogynist. His constant commentary on every character’s body was exhausting. It mostly just confirmed my worst suspicions about how some men think. So… no

• I just started Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel. It’s a post-apocalyptic story. It’s about what remains and what we value when the world as we know it is stripped away. I’m kind of hoping for a hopeful study of survival. I’ll let you know how it is.

T.V. & Movies

• Love Is Blind on Netflix

  • This show is so messy. It’s a good escape if you need it. I love a little trash TV here and there.

• 11.22.63 on Netflix

  • A good time-traveling mini-series with James Franco based on the novel 11/22/63 by Stephen King, so you know it’s good. It’s a slightly raw thriller in that signature-eerie Stephen King way, and an interesting exploration of what might have really happened if JFK survived, and it’s just good TV.

Environmental Support

Plants and a Target candle
I am not motivated to clean my house, unless I know I have a good candle to light. This is the one I love.

A new kitchen rug
You know when you buy a new piece of decor, and it feels like it always belonged? That’s how this rug has felt, and that’s when I know I made the right choice.

A rechargeable lamp on my coffee table
It’s cute and gold, makes the room feel moody and romantic, and I like that I can move it around. Last week when I was journaling, I took it to my dining room table and it felt like I was back in the library writing a paper.

Personal Audit / Administrative Work

• Journal Prompts

  • Trying to put thoughts somewhere besides my head.

    • Morning prompt: How do I want to feel today?

    • Evening: Specific gratefulness.

    • What parts of life feel heavy or light even if it doesn’t make sense yet?

    • What do I need more of: connection, rest, freedom, direction?

• Prepped for an interview & got a different job!

  • Took some time to think about what I actually want next, and made a change!

• Made a doctor’s appointment I’ve been avoiding.

  • One of those things that feels so hard but actually takes five minutes.

Nutritional Support (food / recipes)

• Corrie Larkin’s weekly pasta

  • Simple and reliable. This is the whole list of ingredients: garlic, anchovies, olive oil, grape tomatoes, and fresh basil. I like to finish it with parmesan, of course. It’s easy and my kids love it. Linked here:

• Green Tea

  • Trying to drink something that feels better for me. Green tea has so many benefits ranging from skin to immunity. I have trained myself to love the taste when it’s plain, but I also love it with lemon or lime!

• White Popcorn with Kosher Salt and Parmesan

  • You have to make this on the stove with oil, like the grandmas used to. I’ve grown up eating this! It’s so comforting and a good salty snack for evening activities. My kids request it often and it’s fun because you can customize it. I’ve also switched the seasoning from parmesan to Old Vienna Red Hot Riplets, and I’ve also done the ranch seasoning from Penzys.

• Classic Puttanesca

  • Salty and fast to make. If you are an olive and caper person, try it! I like this recipe.

• French Onion Soup & Crusty Bread

  • Comfort food in its most literal form. The onions are a labor of love, so make this when you’re ready to spend some time in the kitchen with some white wine in hand. I’d recommend a dry Vermentino. Yum. I use this classic one.

• Two Easy Dinners in the Freezer

  • This helps me so much during the week when I don’t feel like cooking or being creative. I try to choose things that are easy to throw in the oven, so I can relax with a good book, tea or wine, while it cooks.

    Forward this to someone who needs their weekly dose.

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Practical Improvements (Cosmetic Enhancements)

• NYX Fat Oil Lip Drip

  • Good color options and it stays on for a long time, so I’m not constantly reapplying.

• Trader Joe’s lip mask

  • Surprisingly good. It reminds me of the Laneige.

• Medeca cream

  • This stuff is so moisturizing, supports the skin barrier, and smells kind of like a spa, but not in an overwhelming way. It’s so good for nights when you aren’t using retinol. I got mine on Amazon.

• Baby oil to take off eye makeup

  • I wear a waterproof mascara every day, so this is the easiest way to remove it, plus it moisturizes my lashes. Simple, cheap, and works every time.

One Thing I’m Trying This Week:

• A 20-minute walk after dinner. It turns out that twenty minutes of cold air is good for me, and significantly cheaper than moving to Italy.

There is moral distress in trying to stay professional and regulated when the world feels increasingly hostile and chaotic. We look for substance in our books and logic in our leaders, and when we don’t find it, we try to over-control our surroundings. But I can’t optimize my way out of a season that requires endurance. This week, the “controlled substance” is choosing smaller, better things. If the big institutions are failing, at least the kitchen rug is soft and the pasta is reliable. Here’s to surviving.

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After years in the classroom, reading research obsessively, trying things that worked and things that absolutely didn’t, there is no consensus on what “right” teaching looks like because we cannot even agree on what school is for. There are methods that photograph well. Methods that satisfy administrators. Methods that make parents feel reassured. But the truth is, real learning is difficult to measure with precision because it happens unevenly and often in moments that don’t fit neatly into data charts.

School has a core purpose, and it isn’t compliance or good grades. We know a good grade doesn’t equal mastery. Sometimes, the grades don’t change that much, but we see the differences in their reading scores or writing; but the grade is the same because they can’t meet a deadline. The job of school, the real job, is to produce independent thinkers: people who can articulate ideas clearly, write with conviction, read widely, follow curiosity, navigate disagreement, and build emotional and creative adaptability so students will be productive, engaged citizens of the world, no matter their occupation.

For my entire career, I’ve taught both kids labeled “gifted” and general classes filled with students just trying to graduate or get the credit they need. This is not about honors versus general students; it’s about the consequences of school structures that train students to prioritize grades over deep thinking. This is why we have kids in high school with Bs who are somehow reading at a 4th-grade level. They submit their work, do what they are told, and work with what they have.

Compliance acts as a sort of camouflage. These students are hard to spot because they follow the rules just well enough to remain invisible to much-needed intervention.

Fostering creative adaptability addresses both the literacy crisis and the compliance-only issues. It forces new thinking for both types of students and makes low-performing students easier to identify. With a quick one-on-one, you can tell if a student is missing a concept or if they are overwhelmed by the task and need scaffolding. But sometimes, they will surprise you. I’ve had students who were failing because they were silent about their struggle. Once I removed the rigid structure and sat down for a one-on-one, I realized they weren’t lazy. They were stuck on a single sentence, or they were making high-level connections they didn’t know how to format. They were literally trying to force their thinking into a box. Often, it is a literal box, as students are offered graphic organizers for every task when every brain just doesn’t work that way. When the focus shifted from “do it my way” to “how are you thinking about this,” their literacy skills finally surfaced.

It is often harder to break honors students out of compliance-thinking than it is to motivate general students to creativity. The difference in how they respond to creative freedom is striking. Students labeled as gifted often falter and feel paralyzed when adults give them academic freedom, and their feigned confidence dissipates. It is sad to see, but it is an exercise in hope to tap that atrophied part of their brain and light it up.

The students in the general classroom accept it with joy, as if it’s the first time a teacher has trusted them with real autonomy. They experiment and push boundaries. They produce work that surprises me, and often outpaces their honors peers. Meanwhile, many gifted students want precision: exactly what belongs in the project, where the bullet point goes, and how to secure the grade, which makes them fragile. The general students are more likely to ask, “How far is too far?” “What’s actually possible?” They take creative academic risks, and those risks pay off.

There is nothing like watching a formerly reluctant student glow at the front of the room, guiding classmates through how modern game narratives mirror Greek myth. At that moment, they are the expert. Passion radiates from them, and their true capabilities can shine, for real.

Freedom to create uncovers a dormant intelligence. Many students aren’t lacking intelligence; they’re protecting themselves from failure due to parental pressure, lack of confidence, organizational skills, overwhelm, or they don’t feel safe enough to try.

Compliance-based practices create patterns of learned helplessness. Teachers often solve problems too quickly, masking control as intervention. But the truth is simple: whoever does the work does the learning. When we hand-hold or remove the struggle, we send the message that the student is incapable of the task on their own. This leads them to believe that if I ask enough questions, she will make it easier for me, otherwise known as learned helplessness. Ask any teacher and they will tell you that students will take advantage of this error.

To break this, I’ve had to implement boundaries. During the learning process, I do not allow questions about grades. If a student asks, “Is this an A?” or “Is this good?” I send them back to their seats. I tell them, “Come back when you know what you need to ask me.” or “come back when you can formulate a skill-based question.” This initially terrifies them, especially the honors students. They are used to using the grade as their north star. Without it, they feel lost. But eventually, the questions evolve because they must use the rubric as a tool. They stop asking about the score and start asking about the “skill.” They stop asking “Is this right?” and start asking, “Does this transition actually bridge my two ideas?”

This shift puts the cognitive labor back where it belongs. It forces them to re-read, to evaluate, and to recognize their own gaps. I’ve had honors students ask for video suggestions on grammar to study on their own because they realized they were making the same mistakes. I’ve had general students ask about books that would truly challenge them. The response to creative freedom runs the gamut.

Many classroom behavior issues are less about resistance to learning and more about resistance to busy work or time-wasters. Every kid desires to be challenged and taken seriously, whether they realize it or not, but that desire needs to be conjured with the permission to be curious and to take risks. I’ve seen this switch, and it never gets old. The kids need this passion fueled. They need to borrow it from you and iterate, just like we do, to learn and grow.

However, the cost of compliance-based institutional comfort is the decay of student agency, creativity, and freedom. I am tired of the narrative that schools inherently kill creativity when there are real, tangible ways educators like me work against this belief daily.

When the fear of a low grade, a missed point, or a reprimand becomes the primary motivator, students stop asking “Why?” and start asking “What do I have to do to be left alone?” I’ve seen learning hijacked because teachers sweat the small stuff too often, like scolding a late arrival or policing minor behaviors, while the actual intellectual moment slips away. Students feel it, too. They sit in their seats and wonder, “What am I here for?” This idealized obedience is counterfeit engagement, leaving students unprepared for a world that doesn’t provide a rubric for every task. Public education increasingly rewards the wrong things.

This is why professional teachers must allow and tolerate discomfort, dissent, and revision in their classrooms. I am not only talking about student work; I am discussing routines, policies, and assignments. There have been times when my students requested we change an assignment, and if their suggestion accesses the same skills, I adjust. I’ve moved toward units with optional pathways or student-planned summatives where they choose the medium to prove mastery. By allowing students to redesign an assignment, I am not lowering the bar; I am asking them to engage in creation, which is the highest level of learning. School should be a place where they learn to question, to persist through difficulty, and to trust their own intellectual voice. I won’t pretend to be a monolith, and it is not a personality contest. I respect students as people first and I want them to be happy at school. This respect makes class run effectively and builds their confidence, so management issues are almost nonexistent. They take more ownership. They feel involved and it is good for them to see that they can speak up and make change. Obviously, this is relevant to their real lives as citizens of the world and broader communities.

If school is meant to prepare students for a world that demands adaptability, judgment, and courage, then our classrooms must reflect that reality. The work is harder, but the outcome is students who do not wait to be told what to think.

They leave as active, engaged people who know how to figure it out and speak up to make change. Isn’t that the whole point?

Where do you see compliance replacing learning? Push back. Add nuance. Let’s talk.

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Journals are remarkably hopeful. They are a ledger of our day-to-day, our individual histories, and a record of the futures we want to draw in. There is always a journal in my bag. They are magical. They reveal what is important, and punctuate what continually gets lost in the hustle and bustle of our mornings, afternoons, and evenings.

It is a tool, yes—an essential piece of cognitive infrastructure—but it’s also a glorious, ancient, analog resource that most people ignore in favor of their Notes apps. Mine helps me feel like I have some semblance of control, when we all know I really don’t.

Below, I have outlined how I use mine. My journals are my sanctuary, where I do my best thinking, planning, reflecting, and growing, and sometimes praying.

Me, on paper, in pen.

There is a beauty/honesty about seeing my handwriting change when I’m stressed, or seeing a coffee ring on a page from a Tuesday three weeks ago, although I try never to be so careless. So, here is a glimpse into the madness that keeps my spirit satiated. This isn’t a method so much as a sketch. Enjoy.

I have an A5 traveler’s journal with four inserts:

1. Daily Book

   1. Here I keep: to-do lists, reminders, bits of dialogue, what I noticed, what I made, what I avoided, how I won. Specific gratitude for today. It’s not a diary, it’s a record of being here. I sometimes glue in scraps from my day, too. I name each day at the end of it, and any last pieces of gratitude I want to include.

      

   

2. Anything and Whatever I Want

   1. Exactly what it sounds like. Zero obligation. These are the “low-pressure” pages where my thoughts exist in fragments. It’s where I go when I need to figure out how I feel about something, or list ideas, reflections, books I want to read, or something I want to research. Literally, anything I want. Hence, the name.

      

3. Commonplace

   1. An archive for what I learn, or words/facts I want to remember. Sometimes it’s a lesson from a novel I finished, with a reflection on why I aspire to be like that one character, or it’s a paragraph that moved me, where it came from, and why I wrote it down. It’s a place for pieces of larger works that speak to my values/soul/heart, etc. All culled from literature, poems, nonfiction, and newspapers. It’s intriguing to see the themes that emerge from this collection over time.

      

4. Life Admin

   1. The necessary pages. Appointments, reminders, numbers, lists that keep life from bleeding out everywhere else. I like to arrange my life to-dos in projects. So, in this one, I’ll outline the steps of the project and log when different parts are finished. My current project what I call “Finances as Safety.” Trying to romanticize discipline over aesthetics these days.

Then I have a mini-traveler’s notebook with 3 inserts

1. Things and Stuff

   1. This is a mini version of my daily book, but looser. I make my to-do lists here, but they aren’t tied to a specific day. Nothing is dated unless I decide it needs to be. It holds ongoing thoughts, errands, half-formed plans, and reminders. It’s general on purpose. A catch-all. Plus, as I’ve said, I don’t like strict rules, so this helps me feel free. Yes, I’m kind of strange/neurotic, what have you.

      

2. For the Record

   1. These are things I don’t want to forget. I keep my compliment bank in here, and sweet things my sons say, or little quirks I love about my husband, Mitchell. Wine I tried that one time, and loved, or the perfect recipe for tomato sauce I made on a whim. I love it. Just a small record of things that make my day-to-day special. I think of it as a log of highlights, but only for me.

      

3. Gratitude Index

   1. I try to do this daily, but I’m not perfect, so leave me alone. When I do, I always date it and add a little note of what I am grateful for that day. I try to be very specific with gratitude. I log glimmers here, too. Just good things that happened or small, beautiful things I happened to notice. Like the way the speckled light spread across my littlest son’s face when he told me a story. Angelic. Things like that are otherworldly, holy even. This is one of my favorite parts about journaling, because it trains my brain to look for the good in the world. Don’t we all need more of that these days?

Three Notable Outliers:

1. Morning Pages Journal: I try to do these every morning, and when I forget, I feel it. It’s about dumping out the excess. I think with much more clarity when I’ve done this. It makes my next steps glaringly obvious. You can only write/complain about something for so long before you do something about it. Although if I’m honest, as I’m writing this, I haven’t done them for 2 weeks, so. I’ll get back to it sooner or later.

2. Dreams & Goals Journal: This journal is more strategic. I return to this monthly. It’s where I track what I’m achieving and where I’m changing course. It keeps my focus from drifting too far and ensures I’m actually doing what I said I wanted to do. Sometimes I’m not, or I need to rewrite some of the goals, which I do, without lowering the expectations I have for myself.

3. Junk Journal: It’s where my Pinterest boards come to life with glue. I print family photos, paste quotes that feel like they’re calling out to me personally, and cut bits of art from well-loved books. Nothing is precious. It’s scrap, color, memory, and instinct layered with paper. It’s about play. I’ll throw on a favorite show or some Delicate Steve, pour a glass of wine, and absolutely go feral with a glue stick. It accomplishes nothing measurable, which is honestly refreshing. I’m just making things that bring me joy and calling it a perfectly valid use of time.

The digital world is too fast. Fully formed thoughts are often interrupted by notifications and ads. Yuck. There is a reason I feel scattered. Writing by hand forces a physical and mental focus that matches the speed of actual reflection. It lets me breathe. Opening a leather cover and feeling the weight of the paper is a ritual, and it’s poetic if you want it to be.

I want to know what you use your journal for. Comment and tell me.

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Charlotte Stevens, who is hilarious, inspired me with her “37 Lessons Learned by 37” list. If you haven’t read it, run! I was cackling at some of her lessons, and also found myself nodding along and audibly agreeing to the wisdom sprinkled in between. For me, thirty-three feels like a weird middle ground where I’m finally starting to see the patterns in the lessons I probably could have learned in my 20s.

This is my version. Enjoy!

1. The right playlist can save a whole afternoon.

   1. Sometimes life gets boring, and the days start to drone on, so I go on a hunt for new music when I notice myself feeling down for too long. The good songs will find me, I just know it. Thank god for Olivia Dean! Or I listen to songs from when I was young, because there are some things only Lil Wayne can fix, you know? Nostalgia is true peace.

      1. And a quick note: one of my favorite new Substack reads, A Snob and a Half, makes a point I’ve been thinking about. She says there are certain themes we should actually let shape our lives, and “pick-me” messaging, violence, or anything that normalizes disrespect isn’t it. Basically: listen to music that moves you, sure, but also music that lifts you. She explains it perfectly here.

2. To be a good mother, you have to play the fool.

   1. I’ve always been the young mom, an outsider. The other kids had moms with steady jobs, and everything figured out, and I was waitressing and staying up late doing homework. Playing the fool means accepting that you’ll do things other people think are crazy or stupid as a mother — and you can’t care. Maybe you’re the only one in your family who doesn’t allow sugar or gluten, and everyone thinks you’re dramatic or overbearing. Who cares? It’s not their business.

      There were times my oldest threw himself on the floor in Target, and I got down there with him. I didn’t care what anyone thought. In that moment, he needed me.

      Once, when things were calm, I tried to teach my son not to throw fits, so I threw myself on the floor and started whining. (For the record: I would never mock him during a real crisis. This was for effect.) He thought it was hilarious and realized how inappropriate that behavior was. I swear to you, he never threw himself on the floor again.

2. Your house will be clean for approximately 12 minutes.

3. Protecting kids’ wonder matters as much as building their grit.

   1. My kids are older now, but I still try to encourage their sense of wonder and imagination. There is a cemetery nearby with these romantic stone columns. They look like they could be little homes for fairies or mice, and I say so. With my little ones, I have found a space fight-themed playlist on Spotify, and we drive around like we are in an alien battle (in our neighborhood, and we are safe, so mind your business). A gritty life with no joy is miserable.

5. A strong presence speaks louder than words.

   1. I’ve learned that I’m taken more seriously when I say less. When I actually listen, focus on solutions, and stop narrating my inner life, things just go more smoothly at work and at home. I don’t need to perform or explain myself to be effective. A big part of this shift is knowing I have my own back, and being willing to step into conflict when it matters. When people can sense that you’ll speak up, call things out, and won’t accept disrespect, things change for you. Will changes everything.

      Leaving my personal drama at home has helped, too. It’s a respect thing. Oversharing has never worked in my favor. Miranda Priestly never explained herself, and honestly, I’ve found that I don’t need to either. That’s all.

      

6. Gold hoops go with almost everything.

7. You don’t have to perform to grow.

   1. Chronic people pleasers take note. When you’re not okay, it’s fine to just say that. I try to take a mental health day here and there, do yoga, and go for walks. Growth is taking care of yourself. Show up and be honest when you feel yourself pretending. It also prevents a lot of resentment in relationships when you are honest about your limits.

      

8. Go outside before you decide the day is ruined. (complicated plants)

   1. Yeah, I can sometimes resign myself to being too much of a hermit. If I have a stuffy nose, or I convince myself everything is ruined and I need to overhaul my entire life, or I’m snippy with everyone (which they immediately match, and then chaos ensues.) It helps to go sit in the sun. Vitamin D is real medicine, and can often turn things around.

      

9. Literally no one cares about your laundry/housework and if it’s done or not.

   1. When I go to a friend’s house, and they apologize profusely for the mess, I genuinely do not care. I’m just grateful to be there. So I try to assume the same grace is extended to me. Like, thank you for having me over.

10. Be very specific with gratitude and document it when you remember.

    1. Apparently, gratitude isn’t very effective when you’re vague. It doesn’t do the brain-adjusting, perspective-shifting work it’s supposed to do unless you get specific. I try to notice and name small moments each day, either out loud with my family at dinner or in my journal. For example, I got to take Gregory to get a donut before school, and we shared a little donut cheers. What a sweet way to start the day.

       

11. Wine for dinner is a valid choice.

    

12. No one cares whether you dress within your “color season.”

    1. I took all the skin tests online, and I hate my season’s colors. I will never adapt to dressing like a “cool summer.” Ever. I love black too much. I love my boring outfits because they’re comfy and they make me feel confident, so I genuinely do not care if dusty pink looks best on me. Hell no. I don’t have a single stitch of pink in my closet, and I never will, because I do what I want.

       

13. Everything is customizable.

    1. I’ve mentioned this before, specifically in this article, but I love this idea so much. I get overwhelmed often, and I have to remind myself: I can do whatever I want, however I want, with my family, my house, my work, my relationships. There is no rule book for literally any of it. So when I start to feel like I’m falling short, it helps to pause and ask, who am I measuring myself against? And why? Just because that’s how she does it doesn’t mean that’s how it has to be done. Fix it so it works.

       Maybe you start writing for fun, like me! Maybe you start the business. Maybe you switch jobs. Maybe you have another baby seven years after your first. Nothing is wrong. You’re allowed to customize your life, plus, it feels so good to let go of those petty comparisons.

14. Hand cream by your bed really is as chic and luxurious as they say.

    1. I’ve never felt more important or pretty than I do when I’m freshly showered, already in bed, book in hand, my wine or tea waiting hopefully on the nightstand, and I’m slathering a rich, creamy moisturizer on my hands. Omg, I love it. Splurge for this, mkay?

15. If you can’t get a handle on your emotions, go to bed. Try again tomorrow.

    1. It’s okay to just call a spade a spade. Some days are just a wash. There have been moments at dinner where I just admit to the kids and husband that my day was kind of stupid, then they start complaining too. By the end of it, we are laughing. I’ve even set complaining timers when I sense overwhelming negativity. Honesty makes such a difference. Pretending through crappy days just doesn’t work at home.

16. Keep baby wipes in your car forever, even if the kids aren’t in diapers.

    1. My kids’ ages span from fifteen all the way down to five, and honestly, my fifteen-year-old needs them too sometimes. They’re just an easy way to pull ourselves together after an impromptu ice cream before dinner.

17. When working through something, journal as if your future self is talking you down.

    1. I’ve started doing this, and it genuinely reframes everything. It’s a calming reset for my nervous system when “future me” is speaking to me like a loving big sister. It helps me zoom out, put things in perspective, and see the positives, or at least my next step forward.

       Plus, “big sister me” is kind of awesome, and way cooler than I am.

18. Use waterproof mascara because sometimes you just need to cry.

19. Keep blank cards, stamps, and headache medicine in your car. You never know when someone will need to be celebrated, thanked, or comforted.

20. Be impressed by small things and look for them.

    1. There is a bluebird that lives in the woods behind my house, and I get so excited when I see him fly by or land on our patio. I make sure to point him out. The cardinals, the pretty flowers, the puppy video, the candle that smells like heaven, the type of day it is. I just point out the good and share it, because it’s an exciting way to live, being present.

       My kids match my energy and attitude more than my words ever could. A blessing and a curse. Gregory (8), my middle baby, no matter what we are doing, says, “Gosh, it’s a perfect day for the pool, huh mom?” or “I just love these kinds of cloudy mornings, where…” He is so specific about the good things, too.

       It makes my day better. It makes their days better. Attitude is contagious in the best possible way.

21. Buy the matching pajamas.

    1. Enough said.

22. The library might actually be the best place on earth.

    1. Some of my best memories with my kids have happened in the library. Like the time we got to hold a whole bunch of different snakes (I took pictures, because ew), or when we built a tower taller than us and somehow got it to stay up. The library feels safe to me. I love the way it smells. I love the hope baked into it. I love the community programs and the resources they offer. It’s the perfect third place if you’re in need. As an English teacher, this tracks. I go there when I need to think, escape, or feel creative. Just go get a card, it’s free. It matters to model a healthy reading life for your kids and help them find books they actually love.

       I just finished Hatchet with my middle, and when I picked him up from school, he told me something he’d been wondering about from the book. I loved that it occupied his thoughts longer than our nighttime reading.

23. Keep an extra makeup bag/deodorant, and a mini perfume in your purse. You just never know what you’ll need later in the day.

    1. It’s good to know I have what you need when I need it, so I prepare. It builds my confidence and makes me feel like I can achieve whatever the day throws at me. Better preparation is always an option. If there is a spot where you feel friction, see if there is something you can do to prep and make it easier on future you.

24. Let your children see the full range of your emotions and be vulnerable in front of them.

    1. I need my children to know I’m not a perfect human being. I have good days and bad days. I do my best, but I’m not their savior. They need to learn how to cope with their own emotions, and I try to model that for them, even though I’m still working on it myself. I tell them why I’m having a day. Why I’m nervous about a presentation. Why they can’t have a friend over because I’m at my limit? The key is not making my emotions their problem to solve. I’ve got it, but I bring them into the fold. It’s where they want to be anyway.

25. Skipping breakfast and living on iced coffee and zyns is not a personality; it’s a mistake.

    1. I’ve done this more times than I can count. I’ll be frantic, on edge, spiraling, fully convinced something is deeply wrong with my life or my brain, and then I realize I haven’t eaten. Or had water. Sometimes all day. I’ve been on the verge of an anxiety attack more than once before stopping and thinking, oh. It’s annoying, but food helps. Water helps. Protein helps. I can’t skip the basics and expect to feel okay.

       

26. Stop assuming what people are thinking; ask instead and expect repair/honesty.

    1. I’ve struggled with hypervigilance for a long time, so this has been hard for me to learn. I’m always reading into behavior or filling in intentions where they aren’t needed, and often I’m wrong. My entire life and mood do not revolve around someone else’s emotions. It simply can’t. I don’t have that kind of control. I can control myself and how I react, most of the time. I try to expect that things will be okay in conflict, and it helps me see clearly instead of figuratively blowing things up. That said, I also love to fight and argue sometimes, because I run hot. So there’s that.

       

27. Clean your makeup brushes more often than you think.

    1. No, because I have broken out from this so many times. Then I panic and convince myself I need to change my entire skincare routine, when really it’s just past me being lazy as hell. Good old Dawn works fine. You don’t need special soap. Skincare is vital. Retinol will not do much if you keep popping pimples and touching your face. So gross. Also, get a good moisturizer with sunscreen.

28. Therapy is a game-changer, and you should let go of any stereotypes against it.

    1. It never hurts to get a second set of eyes on something. An objective perspective on your life is incredibly powerful. We can’t see our own roadblocks the way a stranger can. Anyone who has ever confided in a gas station attendant at 2 a.m. outside smoking knows this. Whether you think you’re fine, know you aren’t, or feel neutral about life, just go. It’s helpful to talk things through and understand how your emotions affect the way you show up in the world. Often, you end up working through things you didn’t even realize were issues.

29. Always know where your birth certificate is.

30. Paying attention to people matters more than being “nice.”

    1. Most people aren’t mean, they’re overlooked. We’re all so busy living in a social-fantasy world that disconnects us and creates a barrier to real in-person interactions. Paying attention is weirdly rare now. Being off socials for the past month showed me how little we actually notice. So I try to pay attention with a little more purpose, like remembering the stuff they drop in conversation, the changes no one else catches, and the things that matter to them.

       “It’s not what we look at that matters; it’s what we see.”

       - Henry David Thoreau

31. You are allowed to change your mind.

    1. My whole life, I had a lot of ideas about what was right, what was wrong, and all that. As I’ve gotten older, my values have shifted immensely, because in the face of new information and experience, especially experience, I’ve had new thoughts and learned how to adjust. Let’s normalize getting better with age (like wine!), particularly when it comes to our values and our families. The world needs more people who are willing to look at themselves honestly and change when something no longer aligns with what is loving, fair, or true.

32. Call your sister(or a friend) once a week– a must.

    

33. Talk about adulthood like it’s a gift, not a burden.

    1. Adults need to stop telling kids how awful and hard adulthood is. If that’s genuinely how it feels, something needs to change. Kids need to see parents who are passionate, alive, awake, and open to new experiences. So they can feel some positive anticipation. Adulthood is a lot of work, but it’s manageable, and we get to pick how we live it. Adulthood isn’t a script. We get to choose what we do, how we do it, and even our moods. It matters to show your kids when you’re giddy about something, or how hard you worked for… whatever. I’m tired of kids thinking there’s only one right way to live. Life is creative. We get to paint it, revise it, edit it, and rearrange it as we go. We get to decide the paths forward. Thank God.

Anyway, that’s what 33 taught me. I’ll report back at 34.

Should I add anything else to this list? Please, tell me yours!

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I love curated lists, so I made one. I don’t care if this kind of thing is “out.” I’ve been recommending books, TED Talks, scents, movies, and podcasts for years, and this is my current rotation.

These are the things I’m currently prescribing to myself (and now, to you):

The Hills I’ll Die On

This is my list of the “unnecessary” things I refuse to budge on. It’s a collection of stubborn convictions and high standards for things most people ignore. If you aren’t a little bit obsessed with the details of your own life, who will be? This is what self-respect looks like in practice.

• Analog is Elite: get yourself a journal. They can be practical and pretty. I have a traveler’s journal, a mini-traveler, a journal for morning pages, and one for just goals. I love them because they are customizable. No one else needs to understand the categories, but you. It’s private, self-expressive, and pressure-free. Just try it. The indexing method for my commonplace book changed my life.

• Abandoning Books: If a book hasn’t caught you by page 50, you are allowed to throw it across the room and move on. You are not morally obligated to finish what isn’t feeding you.

• Working from home in a good pair of jeans: First of all. Madewells, Zara, Abercrombie, Levis, and Good American. I feel hot and confident in a good pair of jeans. I won’t apologize for my madness.

• Specificity: A passionate defense of a very specific kind of fill-in-the-blank. It’s okay to just care and not explain. Just don’t be rude about it. Reese Witherspoon says, “If you want something done right, do it yourself.” Don’t expect someone else to care for you. A shortlist of mine:

  • Having curled eyelashes and mascara on

  • Keeping blank cards in my car (just in case)

  • Keeping my favorite pillow placed in the right spot on the couch

  • Choosing the right wine glass for my mood

  • Leaving the house completely put together, no excuses.

• You don’t need a signature scent: This is a great concept, but I like to choose my perfume based on the season and my mood. Let’s push against aesthetic rigidity. Currently: Ombre Leather by Tom Ford (Winter), Glossier You (Whenever), and Gardenia Palm by Good Chemistry (Summer—currently discontinued, pray for me?).

The Open Tab

A glimpse into my current intellectual restlessness. These are the ideas that are taking up too much real estate in my brain.

Mouse-fart motors in NASA. I learned about these from the Armchair Expert Episode with Mark Rober, and I think about it probably once a week. It’s such a small, absurdly precise solution to a massive problem—and I keep thinking about how often progress depends on people obsessing over details no one else can see. (1 hour listen / Bring coffee).

Trying not to kill my house plants is an ongoing lesson in patience and attention (obvious).

The King with Timothee Chalamet’s speech before the battle, but you should just watch the whole movie. The language here is used to steady fear, not erase it. I think about how words can actually fortify people when everything else feels uncertain. (Watch the whole movie / 2 hours).

My friend’s 90-year-old grandmother, who is my idol. I’ve never met her, but she’s lodged herself in my mind. She tells the truth plainly, always has her makeup done, and helps her grandchildren practically and financially. She’s faithful and steady. I think about what it would mean to live that long without apologizing for what you value. She feels like a future self I’m taking notes from.

This article from the London Book Review, entitled “Why Children’s Books?” by Katherine Rundell, is a gorgeous, defiant argument that children’s fiction isn’t a “junior” version of literature, but a strategy to rediscover things like wonder and courage that we’ve let get buried under adulthood. I keep thinking about what we lose when we abandon those muscles. (20 minutes with a coffee).

NYTimes article “Thinking is Becoming a Luxury Good.” It’s a terrifying look at how deep focus is becoming a status symbol, available only to those with time, money, and protection from distraction. I can’t stop thinking about what this means for students, creativity, and anyone trying to live purposefully. (5 minutes, read it over lunch).

That Gap Commercial that made me cry (5 minutes, watch it anytime).

The Fine Print

This is a small sensory inventory: the scents, the textures, and the single sentences that make a boring Tuesday feel memorable and luxurious.

• The Lotion: The Ginger hand lotion from Origins. Smells like a spa; people smell it & comment, my hands are soft.

• Pears & peaches

• Mixed Metal jewelry: People who say you have to choose silver or gold are living in a prison of their own making.

• The “Specific” Pen: The Pilot Precise V5 Rollerball. If I don’t have this, I don’t want to write.

• Quotes I have been drawn to:

  • With all you’ve got

  • Carry a stone in your pocket if you feel unsteady.

  • “With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come,” - William Shakespeare

  • “Every storm has two purposes: destroy what isn’t solid, and reveal what is. ” - Unknown

• The Lighting: When I lived in my apartment, I had this glass disco ball that I put in the sun, and it put little white light specs over the whole living and dining room. Stunning. This one is a literal need.

Out of office:

These are the heavy hitters. The things that require you to put your phone in another room and commit. These are the “long-form” joys worth the time investment.

• Movies I am Obsessed With:

  • About Time

  • Past Lives

  • Good Will Hunting

• Shows worth the time investment:

  • The Beast in Me

  • Fallout

  • Parenthood

  • Schitt’s Creek

• Books that are must-reads:

  • Milk Blood Heat by Dantiel W. Moniz

  • Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

  • The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan

• TED Talks (Watch when you have 10–20 minutes to spare).

  • “Get Comfortable Being Uncomfortable” by Luvvie Ajayi Jones

    • “Well-being is community business.”

  • “Give yourself permission to be creative,” by Ethan Hawke

    • It’s the antidote to the “I’m not an artist” lie.

  • “The Danger of a Single Story” by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

    • Every human, especially every student, needs this.

• Substack reads:

  • After Dinner Conversation, Philosophical short stories that give you something to chew on. Just yes.

  • The Autodidact. For when I want to learn something niche just for the sake of knowing it. It’s the digital version of my Commonplace book.

• Podcasts:

  • The Toast, (For when you need the world to feel a little lighter)

    • Pop culture fast-talk; it’s the intellectual equivalent of a Diet Dr. Pepper—refreshing and bubbly.

  • The Armchair Expert (For the deep dives)

    • It’s where I go when I want to hear smart people be vulnerable about their lives and work.

  • Diabolical Lies (For when you need depth and culture)

    • It’s become my favorite way to spend a commute being judgmentally fascinated by strangers.

Current Miscellaneous Obsessions in no particular order

• The library, stickers for my journal, Diet Dr. Pepper, Armchair Anonymous interviews, Cleo Wade’s poems, de-influencing, talking on the phone, dairy boy pajamas, lime water, and green tea.

• Olga Tokarczuk’s Drive Your Plow over the Bones of the Dead, Beth Allison Barr’s The Making of Biblical Womanhood, and Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird.

• Commute songs: Anything by The Marias, SZA, Lana Del Ray, sombr, and Olivia Dean.

• The wisdom in Irish sayings & pieces of advice:

  • “May you have the hindsight to know where you’ve been, the foresight to know where you are going, and the insight to know when you have gone too far.”

That’s it. My current rotation. If you actually try any of these, let me know. Or don’t. I’ll keep suggesting them regardless.

I don’t think taste is about being interesting. I think it’s about being attentive. Over time, you start to notice which things clarify you and which ones just fill space. These lists are how I keep my life from becoming vague or meaningless. Maybe that’s the real prescription: pay attention long enough to know what deserves a permanent tab.

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Social media is a black hole. It sucks me in, and time stops. It feels like I am gaining some sort of inspiration for my future hyper-aesthetic existence, but I’m floating in between worlds; a fantasy world and my real uncurated life. It’s an illusion and a purgatory of sorts, plus it’s kind of gross.

Suddenly, I’d been scrolling for an hour. I looked around my beautiful home, or at least I thought it was… but I saw a 15-second clip of a stranger’s library that looks much more regal than mine, so I needed to adjust. I thought my clothes were good enough, but then I discovered a new matrix to use when getting dressed, and realized my error. I thought my family photos were good, until I saw theirs. I’ll find a new photographer this week. It was exhausting, comparing my day-to-day life to thousands of people. Feeling compassion for some, then for myself, in a never-ending loop of self-inflicted torture. It’s violence, non-reflective violence.

It’s sickening how high my screen time has been. I checked last week, and it was 2 hours and 23 minutes per day on average. I’m embarrassed. I tend to numb when I don’t want to deal with my emotions, so I drink a glass of wine, find something to order on Amazon that promises to improve my life immeasurably, or I scroll social media. It’s a consumerist band-aid for a deeper issue. Then I’m surprised when I’m anxious.

Then I worry about being anxious, the state of the world, making homemade bread, having glass skin, adjusting my parenting style, how I will manage to create my capsule wardrobe, or if I am whimsical enough.

I know I’m not the only one waking up from this. There is a reason the “return to analog” is gaining so much traction right now, and why we are seeing these viral journal ecosystems and people romanticizing paper planners and film cameras. We are collectively yearning for something we can actually touch. It’s ironic that a viral digital trend is what is helping people make a change. I love the return to paper, notes, pens, and tactile hobbies, but I have to be careful not to turn my recovery into another project. I don’t need my journal to be pretty; I need it to work. Otherwise, I’m right back where I started, suddenly stressed about the things that are supposed to be enriching.

In a more practical way, I’ve been forgetful and flippant about things that actually matter. Like spending one-on-one time with my kids, dating my husband, reaching out to friends to get together, saving my money, moving my body, and getting out of the fucking house.

The feed tells us who to be and what to think and prevents individuals from developing a genuine world view. Instead, users try on POVs like fast fashion, let them go, and find another that makes them feel better about themselves, and how they treat others, because he is “just a narcissist,” according to the carousel I saw five minutes ago. This is a perfect example of how we use “therapy-speak” to avoid the nuance of real relationships. Why do we need to be validated by a hand-picked group of people we don’t even interact with face-to-face? The feed feeds on us more than we gain from it. It doesn’t just thin our time. It thins our lives and our thinking.

It stifles growth. It is possible to get your assumptions confirmed in a couple swipes, so you’re justified in your actions that might actually be wrong, selfish, or maybe even cruel. The algorithm functions as the ultimate confirmation bias engine. I’ve even found myself mid-argument, possessed by borrowed rage, only to admit I don’t actually know the history or the “why” behind what I’m saying. I was confronted by my lack of knowledge and luckily compelled to go and learn something. A true education is slow, private work. I can only care about so many global issues at once before I lose myself or lose depth. I want my opinions to have deep roots, but be loosely held, and grown from reflection not trends.

So, I deleted the apps from my phone. Got a journal. Drank some water. I’ve been off for a week, and I don’t miss it. My brain is recalibrating to the present moment, finally detoxing itself off the constant, frantic dopamine. I was watching my husband fix something, because he can fix anything, and I thought to myself, when was the last time I looked at him, like really looked and took him in? That unsettled me.

He is the one who always knows when things are off with me, who expresses his concerns, and who loves me regardless of my mood. He’s better than anything I could ever find on my phone; I’d rather talk to him about anything at all than scroll away another one of our evenings together.

Social media can create humans who are selfish, self-obsessed, entitled, and vain. I only know this because I have seen some of these qualities emerge in me at times, but I am better than forfeiting my time, when life is so short to begin with.

My daily average is down to 26 minutes a day. I’ve been less bored and more creative. I made a list of books to read and movies to watch with my family, and got a book from the library.

What I want to achieve now is simpler. I try to recognize the people I love while they’re right in front of me.

It’s crazy how much life you notice when you’re not being summoned by a digital vortex. I don’t know if I will ever go back.

I’m not perfect, and I sense my old habits will come screaming at me every now and then. But my instinct is that my days should be full and satisfying most of the time. It shouldn’t require a performance. It’s not a mood board, and it never will be. I want a life that has room for me to learn at my own pace, allows for the humility to repair when I get it wrong, and the stillness to stay present for the moments that actually matter. I’m so grateful for a fresh go of it.

What’s one analog hobby or habit that has helped you recalibrate lately? I’m looking for more books and tactile things to add to my list.

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