Nine Years In: A Letter to the Teacher (and Woman) I’ve Become

This week, I packed up my classroom for the ninth time. Nine years. Nine sets of bulletin boards. Nine batches of classroom photos, end-of-year awards, and crayon-stained memories. Nine first days where I welcomed tiny humans into my classroom with a mix of nerves and hope. Nine last days where I held back tears, wondering if I had done enough.

This year, like many before it, stretched me. It made me question my energy, my choices, my identity. But it also grounded me. Because year nine wasn’t just about teaching. It was about becoming.

When I look back at the teacher I was in year one, I see someone eager. Energetic. Hopeful in a wide-eyed, Pinterest-perfect kind of way. I thought if I just planned the right lessons, had the right systems, and stayed late enough, I’d make magic. I didn’t understand then that the magic was never in the lesson plan. The real work—the good, gut-wrenching, holy kind of work—happens in the ordinary moments. In tying a shoe while juggling morning attendance. In pausing a math lesson to help a child hold back tears because their morning was hard. In noticing. Listening. Repeating yourself for the eighth time without losing your cool. In whispering, “You’re safe here,” even when your own body feels like it’s running on fumes.

I’ve loved each of my students with everything I had—on the days when I felt strong and on the days when I had almost nothing left to give. And if I’m honest, there were many nights I came home so emptied out that I barely had anything left for my own kids. That’s the part people don’t see. The part where I give and give, not just my time, but my energy, my patience, my presence—until there’s barely anything left for the ones I love most. And even then, I still show up again the next day.

Because that’s what we do. We keep showing up. We rally when we’re running on fumes. We pull from an empty cup. And while the kids make it all worth it, sometimes the hardest part of the job isn’t even them—it’s the adults. It’s the parents who assume the worst, who send the angry emails, who question your intentions when all you’ve done is love their child the best way you know how. It’s the pressure to be everything, fix everything, explain everything. And it chips away at you quietly.

There were days I sat in my car and cried. Days I questioned whether I was cut out for this. Days I felt like I was failing at work and at home. Because when you care this much, it costs you. It costs your sleep, your peace, your weekends, your capacity to be everything to everyone. And still—you do it anyway.

But here’s the truth I’m finally learning to believe: I made a difference. Even when no one said thank you. Even when no one noticed. Even when I felt invisible. I made a difference in small, quiet ways—in the way a child smiled when they felt seen, in the way I kept showing up with love when I had every reason to be hardened. I gave students what I never had growing up: a soft place to land.

At the end of year nine, I’m not just tired—I’m proud. I’m proud of how far I’ve come, of how much I’ve grown, of how I’ve learned to give grace not just to my students but to myself. I’m proud that I stayed when I wanted to walk away. I’m proud of the woman, the mother, the teacher I’ve become—through the mess, the tears, the growth, and the quiet, ordinary magic.

To every teacher reading this: I see you. Whether you’re in your first year or your fifteenth, whether you’re energized or absolutely wrung out, whether this was your best year or the one that cracked something open inside you—you are not alone. Your work matters. Your heart matters. You can be exhausted and still wildly proud of what you’ve done. You can be unsure and still deeply worthy.

Here’s to the growth. To the grit. To the grace we give our students and are finally learning to give ourselves. Year ten is waiting. But for now, I’m going to breathe. I’m going to rest. I’m going to remember that I am more than a job title. Because I’m not just a teacher. I’m a woman learning to come home to herself again.

And even with all the exhaustion, all the ache, all the unspoken grief this job sometimes brings—there’s something that keeps me here. It’s the belief that what I do matters. That love leaves a mark, even if it’s never measured. That the work is holy, even when it’s hard. And that in a world that feels increasingly chaotic, being someone’s safe place still means something.

✨ Journal Prompt:

What part of you grew this year in ways no one saw? Name it. Honor it. You are doing more than enough.

💬 Quote to Feature:

“I’m not just a teacher. I’m a woman learning to come home to herself again.”

💌 If this spoke to you…

Share it with another teacher who might need to feel seen. Leave a comment below and tell me—what did this year teach you about yourself?