Turn and Face the Strange Ch-Ch-Changes

My life has change quite a bit since the surgery took place in June. I don't think I walk as fast, but there's a cleaner, healthier stride. Random people in a parking lot no longer comment on my limp. Sometimes, I catch their eyes scan down my leg. I was once scared to wear shorts in general- before my skin was ripped apart, hammered into, and stitched back together.

I cannot and will not say that this surgery changed every insecurity, but it did give me permission to be so grateful for my choice. In this state of gratitude, I have opened doors up to other feelings that include being kind to the body that has kept me alive all these years. The body that helped me get on stage and sing a song, igniting a forever passion. The one that kept me safe through trauma. The one that now helps me lift weights and walk 10,000 steps a day, lecture a class or assists in a loud belly laugh with friends. So yeah, sometimes the shorts go on- and I find myself caring less and less.

Change your job. Change of identity?

In February, I was given notice of a job opening that I saw coming, but didn't know if I would pursue it. My current job was closing up at the end of the school year, and many of my coworkers were transitioning to a brand new, shiny school. I took this closing very hard.

Just five years prior, I made an hour long drive in record time to what would be my third interview for a new job. I was so ready for a change. I had spent the last two years in a K-12 setting that was so welcoming and helped me grow into a confident educator. Still, I wanted to be closer to family. I had no idea that walking into this building would create stepping stones that impacted the trajectory of my life.

I got the job. A few weeks after school ended and as I moved my items in, my predecessor texted me: "there's someone who says they went to high school with you that is a new teacher here." That person ended up becoming my friend and roommate for almost four years. That school, with bricks that predated my grandparents, housed an amazing group of educators that made me feel so thankful when showing up to work, even on the tough days. From potlucks to a lockdown, state testing to performances...those colleagues are my people forever.

There were the teachers I wished I had at some point in my youth, who offered to run sound at my concerts or help whenever I had an issue. There were my specialist partners, who were always down for a co-teaching lesson or making special artwork for a program. There was the building operator who did not care if I got glitter on stage (teachers, you know how big of a deal that last one was). Finally, there were students who made me laugh, cry, and question life as I knew it- in some of the best ways. Those students later led to the decision of getting my masters with an emphasis on music for special learners- something I would not have pursued if I had just stayed put.

There was this gorgeous space where I could mess up a new lesson or sing some of the most catchy folk songs. I could hear 28 recorders at once or host students pursuing music education. A place to be myself and keep growing into who I wanted to be in this profession. I could stay here for a while.

The closing of this school led me to two choices: to keep doing what I was doing in a different space, away from many of the students and colleagues I had gotten to know over the last five years, or to start over and move up to high school teaching. After lots of contemplation and the inevitable pros and cons list, I ended up accepting the high school level job- going from teaching in one of the smallest spaces in the district to one of the largest high schools in the state.

I have taught high school students before. Still, I found myself so worried about it. As a teacher, I know two finite things:

1) Just as the world is continuously evolving and everything is so instantaneous, student needs are constantly changing. The students I had five years ago are not the same ones who would walk into my classroom now.

Could I do it again?

2) In our society, teaching becomes an identity for all of us. Many of us walked into this profession straight out of college- knowing that no matter the length or quality of our undergraduate programs, nothing could truly teach us like real world experience. So the teachers we were at 22 are not who we are 5, 15, or 30 years down the line. Just as student needs change as years go on, we change too. However, we still hold onto the title of "educator" the way a dog will hold onto their favorite toy when you try to take it away from them. It's in our social media presence or the way we write a letter, weaved into our daily routines and causal conversations.

In adding to my teaching experience, was I losing part of my identity? The one who played music for students as they walked in from the bus, who tied shoes, or loved teaching music to first graders? Was she gone for good, leaving for a while, or just part of who I was no matter what?

When unpacking my many boxes from the old building, I found a pile of letters I had forgotten about. They were thank you letters written from my first high school choir. A veteran teacher knew we all needed a pick me up, so they found their way into mailboxes one random week that school year. Those kids now have college degrees, businesses, babies, or even are my coworkers in a town an hour away. How cool is that? These letters were a glimmer of hope that if I did it once, I could do it again. So, I hung onto that hope and those letters found a spot hanging in my office as reminder.