Leaving the Classroom

You Were Never Just Students To Me

There is something really strange about realizing you are closing a chapter while you are still standing inside of it. I keep looking around my classroom lately, thinking about how much life has happened in there.

Not just lessons. Not just assignments. Life.

I came into teaching nervous out of my mind. Truly. My first year, I remember constantly wondering, “Why do these kids even like me?” I thought maybe I just got lucky. Maybe I could not replicate it. Maybe year two would expose me.

And honestly, year two did expose me. Just not in the way I expected.

It exposed how deeply human this job really is.

This year, I walked into school pregnant. Then I miscarried. Then I got pregnant again. Then I miscarried again.

There are not many places in the world where you can carry heartbreak in front of people every single day and still feel loved while doing it. But somehow, my students gave me that.

I have always tried to be honest with them. I never wanted to be one of those adults who acted like they had life perfectly figured out. And because of that honesty, these kids trusted me right back. They checked on me. They gave me grace. They let me be human in front of them.

That is something I will never forget.

People love to talk about this generation like they are disconnected or lazy or addicted to their phones. And sure, sometimes… a lot of times, I had to tell them to put that phone away. Obviously.

But I wish more people could see what I saw.

I saw kids who care deeply.

I saw kids who would absolutely put their phones down when they felt safe, seen, and connected.

I saw kids who wanted to laugh together. Kids who wanted to matter. Kids who wanted someone to believe in them.

I saw difference makers.

I really mean that.

This year, between every wrestling trip, every chaotic day, every laugh attack during class, every random side quest conversation, every serious conversation, every journal prompt, every moment where someone slowly came out of their shell, I got to witness young people becoming more themselves.

And that is one of the greatest privileges of my life.

I know I am a lot sometimes. Loud New Yorker energy. Too many jokes. Too much passion. A little out of pocket. But one thing I hope my students always knew is that I loved them honestly.

Not because they were perfect.

Not because they had it all together.

Just because they were them.

I hope they leave my class understanding that vulnerability is not weakness. That authenticity is not a weakness. That you can be tough and emotional. Confident and scared. Brave and uncertain. Accomplished and still figuring it out.

All of those things can exist at once.

I hope they remember how to take a breath and reset themselves.

I hope they remember that laughter can save a day.

I hope they remember that life gets infinitely better when you stop hiding behind walls and actually let people know you.

That is where connection lives. That is where life actually starts to feel meaningful.

And selfishly, I hope they know what they gave me too.

Because as much as I hope I impacted them, they impacted me.

Deeply. These students changed my life.

There are kids from every single hour of my day who I will think about for years. Kids who made me laugh when I needed it most. Kids who trusted me with hard things. Kids who reminded me that people are still good.

Leaving is emotional because loving people is emotional.

But what a gift that is.

To my students, thank you for letting me be your teacher.

Thank you for trusting me.

Thank you for being weird and funny and difficult and thoughtful and energetic and human.

Thank you for reminding me that relationships still matter.

I may not be returning next year, but please hear me when I say this:

I will always be your teacher.

Always rooting for you. Always believing in you. Always hoping you choose authenticity over performance. Connection over coolness. Courage over comfort.

And if you ever need me, you know where to find me.

Love,

Coach