If any like-minded reader happens to stumble upon my work here, then I hope I can provide a sense of comfort and kinship. Otherwise, this is all about me, Baby!

It is currently Wednesday, August 26th, 2026, 9:30am (ET), the day after Dolly Parton’s passing (this feels significant somehow). I am on my third day of unemployment after leaving my post of lead teacher in an early childhood classroom. Being an early childhood teacher is not for the weakly constituted or the faint of heart. I gave it my best shot, but teaching ultimately consumed me with a constant fear of not being able to provide each precious child equally with the doting care they deserved. I worry even now that my writing does not nearly capture the gravity of this work, the pressure to create a positive impression of the school system that will help the young child succeed down the road of their education, igniting the spark of curiosity and academic hunger to learn, learn, learn. This pressure which I placed upon myself is not dissimilar to the pressure I had felt throughout my own academic career, to learn and show evidence to my own teachers that I was indeed learning, and not spending my school days daydreaming and doodling in the margins of every notebook I possessed.

Furthermore, the pressure to choose a career at the end of one’s required schooling is how I ended up on the path of teacherhood, with the hopes that I could inspire the avid daydreamer and notebook artist to love school more than I did, to listen to the quiet voices and console the anxious young minds of the iPad generation. I thought, who’s better for this job than the gal who was too afraid to ever even speak to her teachers? I can be that safe person! Little did I know, the adults and authority figures who towered over my shaky young self would only be replaced by the parental figures of these poor iPad babies, who had absolutely no restraint in ripping you to shreds over the perceived miseducation of their little one, or the dreaded phone call in which it is disclosed that their baby has been bitten by another child who had simply failed to express themself verbally in a heated conflict. This parental factor, coupled with my tendency to beat myself up for not stopping the children from beating each other up in times of conflict, led to depression and never-ending thought loops of how ineffective I was as a teacher. Of course, I cannot forget to highlight that there were indeed kind people along the way, parents who understood that group care for children would not be viable without the occasional bandage or ice pack. These parents, along with the children themselves, were the ones who kept me going for as long as I did, with warm words of encouragement and acknowledgments of my keen patience.

I feel sad to have left teaching. The preschool classroom is a deeply raw representation of humanity itself. Uncivilized, but entirely intuitive, children begin to carve out their own meager paths of self-perception through adult-facilitated trials of interpersonal connection and exploratory activities. The lens through which children will come to view the world around them is shaped by their very first learning environment and the people who greet them each morning, and send them back to their most trusted guardians in the evening. Preschool teaching is grounding, earthy; down to the scents of uncontrolled excretion, and the soft soil of the playground, which young children never hesitate to dig their bare appendages into. Not always pleasant to the easily-overstimulated, but a constant reminder that humans are messy, unfinished, yet utterly brilliant in their pursuit for self-actualization at each stage of life. Therefore, engaging with a group of precious individuals, at arguably the most critical point of their lives, became for me a deeply prestigious cause, an honorable yet often thankless position appointed to me by, well, probably God himself. Despite the mental/emotional anguish it took for me to show up each day, this seemingly divine appointment is what made it so difficult for me to unwrap my feeble fingers from these noble duties. The greatest lesson I have learned throughout the course of teaching the young is that one cannot provide such a deep level of care without falling in love with each of the subjects themselves. No matter how dirty, unruly, or unpredictable small humans can be, each one holds the power to capture the emotions of another, to cultivate connections through their own divine gifts and personalities. I believe we all have this ability, although for some the gifts may have been forgotten along the way.

I suppose what I am trying to say here is that my own particular gifts have been lost or convolved with the gifts of others at some point along my path, which is what led me to arrive at the decision that teaching would be the best use of my unique personality. In making this decision, I accounted for my creative and playful spirit, but not my lack of authority and discipline. I realize now that I am much too thoughtful, too dreamy, to really lay down the ultimate rule over a chaotic classroom. I’d much rather be showing my margin doodles to anyone that may appreciate them. I have some vague ideas of how I can best utilize my skills for the time being, but for now, this is my offering. If you, too, believed you were biting into the juiciest fig from the tree, but were led astray by your own lack of belonging, perhaps my story can help you find solace in your decision. I hope to provide further insight over time as I continue to figure my life out.

So long for now, I am going to consume more caffeine and practice gratitude.
You’ve got the music in you, don’t forget it.

Love,
Emma