A Valentine's Day Story

The sense of dread I felt on my 35^th birthday lingered into February. I was finished teaching at the university and had taken a job as a math interventionist. At first, I was happy to be back in a public elementary school, and relieved not to be driving 160 miles to get to work every week.

I was assigned to a class whose teacher had grown children, two years of teaching experience, and no control of her students. Her only classroom management strategy was yelling.

I’d spent the last seven years helping new and pre-service teachers get their feet on the ground. I’d been in a position to provide feedback, and insist on improvement, then provide support to help them meet those expectations. Now I was in a position to do what I was told by a less experienced supervisor and use the materials I was handed. No one wanted feedback from a part-time, hourly employee.

I’d left the tenure track for this. Between my professional identity crisis, longing for a baby, and pharmaceutically induced menopause, those were dark days.

My paid content is more access to my life than I’m willing to offer every human, troll, and busybody with the Internet. People don’t usually pay a fee to be mean. If you can show your appreciation for my work financially, I’m super grateful. If Substack subscriptions aren’t in your budget, but you need this story of hope and healing, send me a message, and I’ll get you on the list. Assuming you won’t be mean.