Author: mmtbagladyintraining

Going on a writing retreat was my retirement gift to myself, in addition to a charm bracelet. I had looked at a few options, but I chose this one because of the time of year and the location. I thought a weekend in a cozy house during a snowy weekend would be just the right atmosphere to lock in to some writing.

The retreat location is beautiful It’s like very near what I imagine my dream house to be. It’s spacious enough for a pool table and it has two fireplaces and a hot tub. The views are aspens and pine trees and it’s quiet and clean with tasteful, comfy furniture.

I started out organizing all my writing. I have been writing on three different computers and my phone. I have bits and pieces of writing all over the place. I wanted to consolidate everything and get it all in one place. I have a lot of writing, but so much of it is sad. I have writing about cancer, schizophrenia, school, death, loss and grief. I thought I wanted to write a memoir about my journey with my son’s mental illness,but as I started piecing my ideas together, I realized that I’m not sure I want to do that anymore. I am kinda bored with my trauma. Maybe it’s time for something new.

Maybe a love story. Or maybe a comedy. Fiction is appealing to me right now. I mean, reality is overrated. I had given my self a goal to get something finished this weekend. My memoir. Or a screenplay. Something. Anything. Finished. I guess I still have time left, but I feel so stuck right now.

I took a break and played a game of pool with myself. A couple of people are sending me updates of the Bronco game and I am fighting sleep at the moment. I brought my knitting and it’s sitting on the hearth. I’m resisting picking it up until I reach a place where I can feel that I have accomplished something.

Not long ago I had this dream where I was working for the newspaper as a writer. I was taken to an office that was in someone’s home and everyone was just kind of hanging about the room. Then the men started doing their impressions of bears and the women critiqued their poses. One of men did a great impression of a sea lion. And then there was a contest at the end where someone told a mystery and he ended up crashed against a wall. Then there was a contest. Everyone had to answer the question–was the narrator dead? I wrote–No. There is no death, only new existences. I think I won the contest, but I woke up before I was sure.

I thought about that dream for days. I think it is about being a writer and how there is no real form or rules, structure is soft and self-governed. I guess I thought it would be easier to sit down and knock out a story, but when is anything easy??????

I guess if I want to be a writer, I just need to keep writing!

I grew up in house of books, but my mom was a clean freak and she thought bookshelves were too messy because of the different sizes and different colors, so our book shelves were hidden. There were big wall length shelves in our den under a picture window behind a couch. To get to the shelf, you could pull the couch out, or crawl into the space between the couch and the wall, and look at books while hidden away. That’s how I did it. The second large collection of books was in the pantry. The pantry was at the backend of a converted garage, and it was always cooler in that room. I would wear my winter coat if I wanted to peruse that shelf. I offer these details to illustrate my commitment to reading and to recall my first discovery of Crazy Horse.

On the pantry bookshelf there was a mishmash of my dad’s college books and that’s where I found “Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee.” I was interested in someone named “Crazy Horse,” because I was crazy about horses. I was pretty young when I picked up that book, but it started my deep dive into learning about the Lakota people. Being able to visit the memorial was a great honor for me and a because of the weather and time of year, I got a private tour and got to spend time in the museum all by myself for as long as I wanted. The experience was an artist’s paradise.

I carved something in stone once. My piece was about eighteen inches high in marble and it was difficult, physically demanding, and I never finished the piece. So to take on the massive proportions of the memorial was sort of “crazy.” The artist knew the project would outlive him, but he included his children, and in turn his grandchildren in continuing the legacy. There still might be thirty to fifty years before the sculpture is finished. But a huge crane was recently installed and a robotic arm can be programmed to do some of the work, so the carving speed could change with technology. I hope to see it finished in my lifetime.

I watched a movie about the artist and he said to be asked to create the sculpture of a great leader was an honor for a Polish immigrant orphan. He also said in the film, “Don’t forget your dreams.” I kept thinking about that phrase as I walked through the museum marveling at the ancient paintings, beadwork, pottery, and wood carvings gathered from Indigenous people all around the country. The work was beautiful and highlighted the resilience and legacy of so many artists and people. It was an honor to be among all the greatness gathered in that space.

My writing retreat is in Lead, SD and the state highway to get there was closed, so I had to go to the interstate and through Rapid City, so I left the memorial before l really wanted to, but I figured I’d have time to check out Deadwood, the infamous town of the Old West, but first I did laundry.

Laundromats and I are not friends. The craziest things always happen to me in them. This was no exception. The lights didn’t work, so the shop was dark. The soap dispenser ate my quarters. There was one other customer and he gave me a scoop of his Tide which I accidentally dumped into the softener dispenser and then transferred it into the right place with my hand. When I started the washing machine, it was so loud that I thought it was breaking, and when the spin cycle came on, I honestly thought the machine was going to explode. I put the clothes in a dryer and it didn’t work, I tried four before I found one that actually spun, but after forty minutes my clothes were still wringing wet, but my rental car has heated seats, so I just spread my jeans out in the car and drove around Deadwood a bit. That’s when a herd of Big Horn Sheep crossed my path.

While I was waiting for them to clear away, I saw a bar and grill named, “Mustang Sally’s.” That was a must stop. While I was eating my chili in Mustang Sally’s, the snow started. It was beautiful, light and crystally. I thought I was in a Hallmark holiday movie.

I still had time to kill, so I decided to go check out Calamity Jane’s gravesite. The map said it was less than a mile, but I decided to drive because of the snow. In the time that I left Sally’s and drove up to the grave, the snow was a blizzard. The cemetery was closed and I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to drive down the hill. I know I have grown up in snow, but I have never seen so much snow so fast. I only had five miles to drive, but it took forty minutes to get there and it was terrifying to drive in blinding snow and trust that GPS knew the way.

I made it safe to the retreat and was welcomed to a warm, cozy, gorgeous mountain house with a roaring fireplace and herbal tea. I thought about the Crazy Horse carvers and the strength and passion it’s taking to continue that dream. I really do hope I get to see the sculpture again. Even if I don’t see it finished, the progress alone is a testimony to facing challenges and believing in the dream no matter what.

The wind is still howling outside, but I feel pretty safe and inspired and ready to write my stories.

When I made the decision to retire, two things happened. Almost everyone I know asked me what I was going to do next and then about half of everyone I know gave me their advice or opinion. The first and only thing I really had planned was a road trip and a writing retreat to Lead, South Dakota.

I took a solo road trip to Mt. Rushmore more than thirty years ago. I didn’t have a cell phone or GPS then. I just had a general idea and followed the road signs, or stopped and asked for directions at filling stations. I think I had a gas card, and just enough cash for a little food. Back in the day, I didn’t really travel with a destination in mind, the goal was to drive and blast my mixed tapes. I probably didn’t set out to get to Mt. Rushmore, but that’s where the road took me that particular day.

I remember pulling up to the monument. It was winter, maybe even the same time of year as this trip, and it was late afternoon and just starting to snow. There were maybe two other cars in the parking lot and to get to the view was a short walk along a dirt path. I remember hugging myself with my arms because I didn’t have a jacket and the snowy wind was biting. I stopped when the carving came into view and gasped. I didn’t expect to be impressed because I’d seen the president heads on TV, in magazines, in movies my whole life, but in real life, the sculptures carved in stone are massive and impressive. I do remember feeling a bit sad though, because the stone mountainside didn’t need a monument to be impressive. I got back in my car and somehow got lost in Custer National Park. I was a bit frantic because I was on a dirt road and the snow was picking up and it was starting to get dark. I came around a bend in the road and slid to a stop. A giant bull bison stood right in my path, his breath all steamy. We just stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity, then he ambled off the road and I went on my way, but kind of shaken. It felt magical, maybe even spiritual. I remember thinking, “Whoa, did that just happen?” I slowed down, and turned off my music. I realized in that moment that my solo adventures really were more reckless than wise and maybe almost colliding with an animal that could destroy my car and maybe me was some sort of message from the universe.

I have never been back to South Dakota, but I have felt drawn there over the years. I dream of the Badlands sometimes. In the dreams, it is always winter and the cliffs give me shelter and answers. Sometimes the bison returns, locking eyes with me, leading me to the right road, so I guess it makes sense, that returning to South Dakota is my first destination on my new journey.

On this trip, I entered South Dakota from the south, not the west and this time I took the backroads and not the interstate. There is not a lot to look at, but at the same time so much, that it’s hard not to stop and photograph everything–the clouds that look like mountains, the single, old-fashioned wind mills, the gray, almost fallen down barns, the rez dogs running along the side of the roads, an old Pontiac Firebird held up by bricks, towns that are empty. My imagination was busy writing the hopes and dreams and stories that were left behind on this incredibly, vast landscape.

Everytime I stopped, my GPS would interrupt my music to tell me to proceed to the route. It’s annoying. I turned it off.

I stopped at Carhenge in Alliance, Nebraska, and watched a paint pony running with the wind, and hiked a bit in the Badlands which really can’t be described, only taken in with reverence. I felt free and alive and in love with my life.

Just like on my first trip, I arrived at Mt Rushmore early in the evening. Place memory is strong and it was a very different place. There was an immense parking garage and big buildings with bookstores and cafes and gift shops and the dirt path was paved and the Presidents were lit up, so even in the fading light they were visible. They were still striking and impressive, but I felt sad again. Sad that it wasn’t the same as the first visit. I missed feeling like I was finding a hidden treasure on a hiking trail. I did walk through the museum and read the history and learned facts that I didn’t know, and I had a nice chat with a ranger who also remembered the park from thirty years ago. She gave me a map and circled things that I might want to see. I liked the paper map with her handwritten notes. It was like having a bit of nostalgia in my pocket.

I thought about hanging out at the monument until it got dark and taking some photos with a black sky, but there aren’t a lot of tourists in January and my brain started writing a Mt Rushmore version of Dateline.

I didn’t get lost on my way down from the monument this time. I didn’t meet a bison either, but I did remember the girl I was on my first trip. I used to think she was half crazy and needed to be someone else, better, but I realized today that girl was brave, kind of bad ass really. I just didn’t believe bad ass was a thing thirty something years ago. She made me realize my path forward is about imagination and freedom and being brave enough to embrace the unknown. Maybe it’s always been about that, but I just took the long way around. Being on the right road now was worth everything it took to get here.

“People can be a bit stupid about their pets…”

Out of the million plus words in Harry Potter, that sentence always brought a smile to my face. It’s so true. I saw my dad dig a fox hole for a cat so she could hide when she was hunting. One of my brothers converted a basement into a cat bedroom complete with its own maze and private bathroom. My cat, Charlie ran for President and had his own webpage. But my sister, Pam topped all the outlandish pet stories with her obsession with her dog, Stormi.

Pam was adamant about not getting a dog, but when her daughter brought the tiny black pit mix home, it was love at first sight for Pam. Pam bought that dog toys, comfortable bedding, the best dog food, spa days, and paid for a babysitter, so the dog was never alone. When Pam died, I knew it had to be an accident because she never, ever would have abandoned that dog.

Stormi came to me because my son had been babysitting her for about a year and a half. Stormi was distraught at the death and the paramedics and the disruption to the house, but Shayne was able to calm her down and she went with him willingly. He brought her to my place because he can’t have pets at his place. I thought it was temporary, but it’s not turning out that way.

For a few weeks, Stormi was re-homed, but she cried at night and whined during the day. My son went and picked her up and brought her back to my house. I swear she exhaled a sigh of relief when she walked into my living room. Like “I’m home.” And I was, “Like, oh crap, I am starting to love this dog.”

But here’s the thing. I don’t want a dog. I want to travel and be open to any changes that might come my way. Also caring for the dog has put my son back in my house. He still has an apartment, but he is basically living with me again to help with the dog. He maybe could keep her if he found a new place to live that would accept a section 8 voucher and a pit bull. That seems almost impossible. We waited too long to get housing for him to give it up and he needs to live on his own. Being independent is important for his future.

I asked Shayne what he wanted because he and Stormi have a strong bond. He said he would care for her, but if a good home was available for her, he would be okay letting her go, but only if it was the right person.

The right person has to be infinitely patient, work from home or be retired, and possibly be a Pisces or a Cancer, or a maybe a Scorpio. The right person would cook chicken for the dog and maybe grow some carrots for her in the garden. I am kidding, but only sort of. That’s the kind of life she has known.

I am not going to relinquish the dog to the shelter. I am also not going to randomly let her go to someone who is interested in a pit bull for sporting reasons. Pam meant the world to me and this dog meant the world to her.

Stormi has been treated better than many kids I know. She was the absolute center of Pam’s life and has been pampered and spoiled to the nth degree. As a result she is super sweet and affectionate, but also very clingy and has separation anxiety. She needs a home where she isn’t alone much and gets lots of attention. She’s really energetic and loves to play. She’s used to lots of toys and loves fetch, tug of war, and running and jumping. She’s good on a leash, but she’s strong. She also hasn’t been raised with other animals, so I am uncertain how she would be. She is interested in my cat, Lucy, but Lucy said, “Are you kidding me. I hate dogs. I hate that dog the most. When is she leaving?”

So I don’t usually use my blog like this, but I could use some help finding a great home for Stormi. Or a place that Shayne could rent with section 8 and have a dog. Or someone to come and convert my garage into an apartment for Shayne and Stormi.

I want the best life possible for this dog. It’s what Pam would want and it’s the last gift, I can give my sister.

A few months ago I was at the nail salon and there was a a group of women with Bride Squad t-shirts getting manicures as part of their festivities. For a second, I wanted my own bride squad, not that I wanted to walk down an aisle, I just wanted a time to hang out with close friends and laugh and celebrate. I started coming up with a list of who my squad would be, and realized that I have too many women and men in my life to narrow down to a manageable squad.

But when I heard rumblings on the retirement party some of my squad was planning, I was hesitant. Part of me wanted to just walk away without fanfare. Or maybe just rent an air b and b with a hot tub and fireplace and have a sleepover with five or six friends, cook, drink margaritas and laugh. Or maybe treat myself to a pair of brown leather boots, play Bunco and call it good. I really didn’t want anyone to go to a lot of trouble, or spend money on a venue, or have the spotlight on me, but at the same time, I knew marking the end was important. I craved closure.

The celebration could not have been better. It felt like a timeline of the best parts of my life in education. There were some students who dropped by and some parents, some of my family, and some of my friends, but mostly the men and women who have worked alongside me in some capacity over the years. That made a lot of sense to me. Sometimes being a teacher feels like being in a sailboat in a vast ocean with a storm on the horizon and the only way to stay afloat is to stand side by side by your teammates and lift the sail together. You share everything–celebrations, frustrations, a language that the rest of the world can’t even really know. For me, it wasn’t the kids, or the paycheck, or summers off that kept me in the classroom, it was my school squads. They are the ones that got me through the hard times and shared my joys and sorrows, and become my family in every way. So I was humbled and honored so many important people in my life came out to say good-bye. The respect and love shown to me filled me up in away that I may have never felt before. I am writing this with tears running down my face, not because I am sad, because I really felt seen, heard and valued in a way I didn’t know I needed. I left knowing that my time in the classroom mattered and it had impact that will ripple and echo in ways I will never fully know. I guess at the end of the day that is what any teacher really hopes for.

Thank you to everyone who has reached out with cards, letters, texts, hugs, stories–I have no words for how important this farewell has been to me. I just know that a big crowd has amassed to help me cross the finish line and cheer my accomplishments. It made me feel triumphant and strong and it’s exactly what I needed to carry me forward on the next stage of this journey.

Today is my last day in the classroom.  The closet, filing cabinet and desk are mostly empty.  The counter tops are clear and the walls bare.  The room is mostly ready for the new person to make her own mark.  

This week has been a cornucopia of emotion as each “last” ticks by.  I expected to feel sad, and happy, but was  taken aback at how angry I felt.

I am leaving education for a few reasons, but the primary reason is the toil it has taken on my mental health.  When I started teaching thirty years ago, I was expected to teach content, but now I am expected to be a counselor, a parent, a jail warden, a psychologist, an entertainer, a life coach, a behaviorist, and if there is time in the day, an educator.  The expectations are impossible and the pressure is intense.  I sit in my car in the mornings with pains in my chest, my heart racing,and tears running down my face.  At the end, I return home and it takes hours for me to decompress from the noise, the demands, the constant barrage of raw emotion and neediness of kids who are wanting to be seen and validated at every turn. There are wins, but so many defeats that the triumphs seem insignificant.  So I am leaving, but I am angry that I have given my life to this work and feel so very defeated at the end of it.  

I used to be afraid of anger.  But I see value in it now.  Anger can be a catalyst for change and a way to stand in the truth. The truth is the educational system in America is broken and it is not failing kids, it is failing the adults who are trying to hold up the crumbling walls and being crushed in the fallout.  Letting go and walking away isn’t defeat for me,  it is survival.  So I guess I feel like any survivor–sad, happy, angry, triumphant, strong, proud, lucky, humbled, and grateful.  All the feels are showing up to take their turn and help me let go of this life and walk on.  Anger just needed to do its part.  

I am not sure what the last day of my teaching career will look like and what emotions will show up, but I am ready to cross the finish line.  And that feels redemptive.k

I am down to single digits of my teaching career. I gave away posters on my wall and stuffed animals on the shelves. I packed up my coffee mugs, and extra clothes and a few things I want to take home, like my radio that I bought with my own money and my DVD player. I am giving the DVD player to my son, so maybe he will watch Hot Fuzz at his own place instead of on my couch while eating my snacks.

Everyday people ask me what comes next. Honestly, I don’t have a clue. Sometimes I say the truth, that I don’t know. Sometimes I say that I plan on moving to the beach, walking my designer dog and writing on the front porch. That’s my fantasy life. I know I do want to work, just not necessarily with kids, and I don’t want to manage anyone’s behavior or teach anyone anything they don’t want to learn. I would love to work from home, but I am not opposed to moving, so I suppose that leaves me a lot of options. Mostly, I can’t think too much about the next step until the classroom part is over.

I ran into someone I know over the weekend and she was scoffing outwardly at my retirement mid-year, and too early. I could have gotten upset, but it’s her opinion, and she has no idea what I feel, or what I need. I know it’s the right decision, even if I am uncertain about the future.

In a way, I just wish my last day could just happen without a lot of fanfare, but I know that closure is important. I do have a few more things I want to accomplish before I dip out. I want to finish strong and mostly, I can say that I am doing that. I am going to miss watching kids grow up, and knowing all the slang and trends. So many people have touched my life in education and I have grown and learned so much in this career. My years in the classroom have made me strong, resilient and ready to face any challenge. So even though I don’t know what comes next, I have the mindset for crushing it!

Pam was my sister. We might not have had the same blood, but we were thrust together as babies and shared clothes, toys, brothers, mothers, fathers, food, crayons, hobbies, dreams, and fears. Even if we had other friends, interests, paths, we had an unbreakable bond that reeled us together no matter where life took us.

This is twice now that I have gotten a phone call that irrevocably changed my life. I am going to say that I must not have learned much the first time, because it is equally baffling the second time. I feel like everything has been ripped out from underneath me and I have to restart my journey all over again, but this time one of my senses has been taken away, and maybe one of my limbs. My car is out of gas, and I think a storm is coming. Also I don’t have the right clothes. And the first person I would call for advice is gone.

I knew where Pam stood on everything from the Easter Bunny to pineapple on pizza and I can’t believe that we aren’t going to grow old on our front porch drinking tea and remembering how much fun we had as kids, how wild we were in our twenties, and how hard we worked in our thirties and forties.

It’s been a week now since the phone call. I wrote a tribute to share at the service. I sat with friends and family who have their own memories and love. I took in the photos and flowers and sympathy messages. It doesn’t feel real. I can’t cry. I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about little things, like her purple Donny Osmond socks, and reading Snoopy comics on beach towels in the backyard. I just keep waiting for her to call me on the phone like none of this has happened. But it did happen.

When Pam and I were nine or ten and we were at the playground on the schoolyard. There was one of those old metal jungle gyms that didn’t really have a name. We were determined to walk up it without using hands. We practiced, one at time, talking turns spotting each other, first walking up one side, then across the flat top, then down the opposite side. It took a lot of balance and concentration and falling on that thing was no joke. We practiced until we had a little circus performance of starting on either side, passing at the top for a high five and finishing on the opposite side. We probably could have set our own TikTok trend with that stunt. I don’t remember showing off our skill to anyone else. We knew we did it and that’s all that mattered. We always had our own private brand of brave and crazy.

I have a habit of treating grief like a supervillain, staving her off with strong, sharp swords, forcing her to retreat into the shadows. Too bad she doesn’t stay there. I am trying to accept grief as a rider on this journey, but I kinda hate her and I don’t want to be friends.

Pam has been with me on every stage of life up until this point. I used to think our bond was formed by our shared histories and all our memories, but it was deeper than even that. I think at our cores we both shared a gritty, determined powerful courage that carried us through challenge after challenge. We learned to be fighters together. We may have chosen different battles, but we constantly converged and drew strength from each other. It never occurred to me that one of us would fall before the other. So, my journey continues and instead of my brave and crazy soul sister, I get to ride on with Grisly Grief. Pam would laugh if I told her that and say, “Well, that sucks, but that’s how it is.”

Pam always kept things real for me. I know I am strong enough to go on to the next stage, even if Pam is somewhere else, because I have reels and reels of memories and stories. One night soon, she will show up eating cotton candy in a dream, and maybe I will wake up laughing. Or maybe crying. It doesn’t matter because Pam has always been there for all my laughter and tears and she will always show up for me because she is in my heart and soul forever.

I woke up this morning with the memory of discovering a perfect sand dollar on the beach. I could feel my sharp intake of breath at the joy and surprise. I could viscerally feel the coolness of the damp shell and the rough grains of sand clingy to the surface. When I picked it up, I thought the sea had given me a gift, maybe it wasn’t like winning a million dollars, but it felt like some kind of magic.

I didn’t open my eyes, instead I just remembered that moment alone watching the sun light the Pacific. I breathed in the peace. For a girl, who grew up in the mountains, I feel like the coast is home. Before long, all the “to do’s” of the day came crowding in, filling my mind with busy noise. I have to teach two classes the concept of civility today. Eleven year olds and civility. No wonder I am trying to gather strength from my memory of the ocean.

I have thoughts on this idea of “teaching civility,” but, I am trying very hard to bring my best everyday. Part of that is silencing my cynicism. I came up with an idea of grouping my class into random teams and giving them a bag of materials to invent games and the rules that go with the games and seeing if they can play nice, because isn’t that what civility really is? Playing nice? I already know which kids will be successful, which kids will struggle and which kids, will try to steal, eat, or destroy the supplies. There is that cynicism again. Maybe the kids will surprise me. Yeah. It could happen.

Anyway, I got up, and started getting ready for work and realized it wasn’t even 4 am. I was excited. Not for work, but excited because I entered an art show. I submitted some photos to the local art center for the September show “On the Horizon.” I have never submitted work to an art show before, but I have always wanted to try. The opening is tonight, and I am looking forward to seeing my work on the wall.

The irony of the title. ” On the Horizon” is not lost on me. I am doing my best to approach my last months in the classroom “one day at a time.” But really seeing the light in the very near future is getting me through every day. It doesn’t feel like a burden, more like a final stroke on a painting that’s almost finished. I can step back and see the brilliance and the flaws and the parts I would change and the parts I love. But mostly, I am done.

The art show is exciting to me because it is the first step in my promise to myself to show up for what is in deep in my soul. Sometimes I have thought I have wasted my creativity on a bunch of kids who don’t appreciate it, but I am trying very hard to reframe my thinking. Maybe thirty years with kids has given me more creativity, filled me to the brim with ideas and experiences. I don’t know what lies ahead, but I have promised to no longer hold back the pictures, stories, movies written in my heart. This is their time to be born. The horizon is right in my reach.

I used to say that when I retired I was going to move to a beach and get up every morning and gather seashells from the receding tide to sell in my tourist shop along with kitchy t-shirts and whimsical clay sea turtles. I’d call my shop, “My Shell’s,” which is a play on my childhood nickname from my dad. When my son got sick, I thought maybe an ice cream truck might be a better idea. Together we could travel from beach to beach serving soft serve to haggard moms with sandy toddlers. On rainy days, I’d close shop and watch the waves crash in. Every beach town I am in, I imagine what it would be like to live in a place where I could hear the roar of the ocean every morning. My travels haven’t been about the perfect beach to retire in, but they aren’t NOT about that either.

Speaking of retirement, that’s happening. I put in my paperwork, but I will work until Christmas. I will start 2026 as a free agent. The choice to leave was agonizing, and I so appreciate the patience of my friends and family who have listened to me waffle and wail over the decision. I discovered that I am really not great at endings. I have been going to school in the fall literally my entire life. When August rolls in, it’s time for new shoes and Sharpies and maybe a haircut. But for the past four or five years, maybe even longer, August has also been a source of great anxiety and panic. I have tried different things; I’ve switched subjects, grade levels, schools, even districts. I have tried breathing exercises and yoga and positive self-talk. I coach myself up with thoughts like…”You can do this! It’s gonna be great! One more year. You got this.” But in reality, by March, I am ready for a padded cell, and it takes all of June to get my soul healthy again. I finally decided that it was time to listen to my heart and start a new chapter for myself.

Most of my friends are already back in their classrooms, pouring over class lists and making bulletin boards and getting lessons ready, but I’m spending my last days of summer on the Oregon coast. I want to finish strong, and bring my best, so I decided to give my soul a long drink of the ocean, like an energy drink for the last leg of the race.

My first day on the beach, I looked down and saw a perfect sand dollar. It felt like a gift. I held it tightly as I walked along the water line. I could go all writerly and make a metaphor about the shell and life, but I”ll just say that finding the sand dollar was transformative. It helped me realize that shedding my old life is making way for something new. It’s all up to me. I get to decide. And I am so ready for the challenge.

Meanwhile, the Oregon coastline is unlike anything I have ever seen. It might just be the perfect beach.