It is what it is

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Daphne Turns Nine

Nine.

Somehow, impossibly, beautifully… nine.

There is something about this age that feels different from the years before it. It feels like the beginning of becoming. Like watching someone slowly unfold into who they were always meant to be. It’s a weird thing to be a mom where you are so proud of their growth and the person they are, but also realizing you never get to be with this age again. There is mourning and celebration with each passing year.

This year asked a lot of you, Daphie girl.

A new school. New experiences. New teachers. New friendships. New expectations. The year was packed full of things that kept you busy.

And yet, you kept going.

You walked into unfamiliar places and kept trying anyway. You raised your hand for things that would have felt scary to many people. You qualified for two academic competitions, and it was amazing to see you shine in those moments even when I know it was out of your comfort zone. You tried basketball for the first time. You stretched yourself in ways that would have been easy to avoid. And even when you doubted yourself, you kept showing up.

That quiet courage is one of the things I admire most about you.

Sometimes I wonder if being sandwiched between two brothers who naturally take up so much space has caused you to shrink yourself a little smaller than you should. The world around you can be loud. Fast. Busy. Full of people talking over one another.

But there is something powerful about people who observe first. Who think deeply. Who notice details others miss.

That’s you.

You have one of the most creative minds I have ever seen. Your brain is constantly moving, imagining, creating, experimenting. There are science experiments scattered across your room, drawings on notebooks and scraps of paper and sometimes things that probably were not intended to be drawn on at all. You are always building something, imagining something, wondering something.

You are endlessly full of ideas.

And what I love most is how your mind works. You don’t just color outside the lines. Half the time you’re inventing an entirely different picture altogether. You see things differently, and I hope you never lose that. You are constantly teaching yourself new things whether it is the periodic table, random facts about space or penguins, how to shade in pencil drawings, or how to make your own slideshow in different apps.

This year I also watched you build your confidence in dance. There’s been something really special about seeing you settle into lyrical and tap, seeing moments where you stop overthinking and simply move. We really saw that come out when you did the stage show “High School Musical.” Those moments feel like little windows into who you really are underneath the uncertainty.

And I wish you could see what everyone else sees so clearly.

Because the truth is: there is so much greatness inside of you.

Not the loud kind. Not the kind that demands attention every time it enters a room. But the steady kind. The thoughtful kind. The creative kind. The kind that changes the people around it quietly and deeply.

You are constantly reading the room to fill in the holes. Whether that is something physical to brighten the room up, or emotionally telling when someone needs extra attention or care. You are the everlasting helper. Your empathy is one of my favorite qualities you have, and you are someone who is always making sure that those around you feel included and seen.

My biggest wish for you at nine is that you begin to believe in yourself the way the people who love you already do.

I hope you find your voice in all the noise.

I hope you learn that your thoughts are worth sharing, your ideas are worth hearing, and your presence is worth noticing.

And more than anything, I hope you continue leaning fully into the wonderfully out-of-the-box way you see the world. Because that part of you, the imaginative, curious, creative, beautifully kind part, is how you put your mark on this world.

The world does not need you to become more like everyone else.

It needs more of exactly who you already are.

Happy ninth birthday, sweet girl. I can’t wait to see what this year brings you.

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Coaching Her First Season

Basketball has always been my favorite sport. Growing up, I spent so much of my time in the gym as my dad coached at our high school so we were often around to see the game. Then I spent years on my own teams learning the positions and the ups and downs of the sport. Hearing the bounce of the ball, the squeak of shoes, the rhythm of the game, it was something I loved and brought me so much.

When Daphne signed up for her first season this year, a part of me was so excited for her to experience that joy too. But another part of me didn’t want her to feel like she had to love it just because it was mine. I wanted to share something I love without making it feel like an obligation. I didn’t want my passion to accidentally become pressure.

I had to find the balance between my own excitement and giving her the space to love the game in her own way. That meant reminding myself not to immediately point out what she could get better at and sometimes she just needed to hear, “That was awesome.”

Watching her try something new is always such a gift. Some days were beautiful and light where she smiled, she hustled, she had fun. Other days were harder. She saw other kids who were more confident, more skilled, more sure of themselves, and she compared herself to them. She wondered why they “never” passed to her. And as her coach (and her mom), that part was tough to watch.

But those moments became opportunities, not to correct her, but to encourage her. To help her see that trying something new isn’t about being perfect. It’s about showing up, challenging yourself, and learning as you go.

As a coach, it’s easy to see mechanics and missed opportunities. As a mom, I had to make sure to see her first. I had to practice pausing. I had to ask myself, “Is this about her growth or my expectations?”

I know from experience how early comparison creeps in. It is part of the reason I stopped playing after my sophomore year. How quickly kids can measure themselves against someone else’s strengths can be something. And I learned that my job wasn’t to eliminate that feeling, it was to help her build the resilience to move through it.

What made me the proudest wasn’t how she dribbled down the court or her stats, it was her heart.

She was always the first one down the court when possessions changed over. She hustled. She encouraged her teammates. Even on the tough days, the ones where she felt discouraged or compared herself, she came back the next practice ready to try again. She didn’t give up. She listened. She worked. She grew.

And watching her grow forced me to grow too.

I learned (again) that my role isn’t to smooth every hard moment for her. It’s to sit beside her in it. To remind her who she is when the scoreboard feels louder than her confidence. To model steadiness. To cheer effort. To let her story be hers.

She learned so much this season, about basketball, and about herself. She learned that hard things are worth trying, that effort counts, and that being a teammate is about more than making baskets.

And I learned (again) that success looks different when you’re a parent. It’s quieter. It’s deeper. It’s less about outcomes and more about character.

This might be the only season she and I do together. Right now she says she wants to come back, but we’ll see what the year brings. And that’s okay if not because this season was a dream in itself.

When I was in middle school, my dad coached my basketball team. (See below, I am number 6, and my dad is the tall one.) It was the only team that he was officially my coach, but he was always supportive of the sport he loved as well. I didn’t fully appreciate it then, but now I look back and see what a gift it was, the time, the encouragement, the belief he had in me. Standing on the sideline with Daphne this season, I finally understand that dream in a whole new way.

Maybe she’ll keep playing. Maybe her path will lead somewhere else. Either way, what we gained this season was so much more than wins or losses.

It was connection. It was courage. It was growth.

And if this was our only season together, it was awesome.

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A Step Into Teaching

Tomorrow I begin my second semester as a middle school teacher, and I’m filled with gratitude, anticipation, and a depth of peace I wasn’t sure was possible when I made this transition.

Six months ago, I shared the why behind this pivot, the long, honest reflection that led me to leave a career in higher education that had been my professional home for two decades. I wrote about feeling a quiet nudge that eventually grew into a persistent whisper I couldn’t ignore. I realized I wasn’t just ready for change, I was being called back to my original dream: being in front of students.

Since stepping into this classroom, that call has become joy, meaning, and connection in ways I could never have fully anticipated.

Creativity as Lifeline

I didn’t realize how much I missed creating, not just planning or strategizing, but crafting moments, lessons, activities, and experiences that live and breathe in real time. Over time, my work became shaped more by navigating initiatives and carrying forward other people’s ideas than by creating from my own gifts. I spent a lot of energy trying to bring others along, shaping messages, and working through layers that slowly pulled me further from the student and the heart of the work. Somewhere along the way, I lost sight of how deeply I’m wired to create in order to encourage learning.

Now, every day, I get to use my skills in a way that feels aligned with my calling. I create, I respond, I adjust, and I engage in real time with the students in front of me. I’m no longer removed from the impact. I get to witness it as it unfolds. It’s one thing to dream up ideas; it’s another entirely to watch them land (or not) and learn from it immediately. Even when things don’t land perfectly, the freedom to try again, reshuffle, and adapt has been deeply restorative. There’s a joy here I didn’t realize I had lost,

Connection and Showing Up

One of the most meaningful parts of this work has been the connections with students and the privilege of truly getting to know them. Middle schoolers are raw, honest, funny, and deeply human in a way that feels sacred to witness. They show up as they are, still figuring themselves out, carrying stories that are sometimes light and sometimes incredibly heavy. This work is not easy. There are moments that stay with me long after the bell rings, stories that remind me how much some kids are holding at such a young age. But rather than feeling helpless, my perspective has shifted. I no longer feel removed; I am in it with them. Being present, listening, laughing, and offering consistency has reminded me that meaning isn’t found in fixing everything, it’s found in showing up. Those connections, even on the hardest days, are what anchor me and continually affirm that this is exactly where I’m meant to be.

Community That Feels Like Home

In higher ed, I was part of teams (some truly amazing teams), but often in leadership roles that felt isolating. Even when I had support, solitude was part of the territory. Leadership can feel like being on an island, surrounded by people but still very much alone. And I had been in a leadership role for the last 8 years.

Teaching is different. I have peers I can walk alongside, not lead, not manage, not supervise, just colleagues who share the same floor, the same schedules, the same moments of triumph and challenge. We brainstorm together. We laugh together. We support each other without competition. I am not having to convince anyone of anything. We show up knowing we have the same goal.

That sense of team, not as a title, but as a shared experience, has been one of the greatest gifts of this change.

Joy, Play, and Presence

My day isn’t dictated by data dashboards and proposal pipelines. Data still matters. I use it to inform and adjust, but now it’s woven into the action of teaching rather than looming outside it. The joy, the play, the laughter, these are not distractions; they are essential.

Some days, I laugh all day. On heavier days, I still find gratitude because even in the weight, I can see God’s hand at work. On the last day before break, I cried on the drive home, not from exhaustion, but from deep thankfulness. I was overwhelmed by the quiet assurance that I am walking in God’s plan, that this path was prepared long before I ever stepped into it. This work aligns so deeply with who He has shaped me to be through every season, every detour, and every hard decision. I cried because I knew I had followed His leading, even when it meant letting go of something familiar to step into something unknown.

Those tears weren’t sadness. They were surrender. They were relief. They were peace. Peace that comes from trusting God’s timing and recognizing His faithfulness in every step that led me here.

Honestly, I have at least one moment of genuine, unfiltered thankfulness every single week, moments that stop me in my tracks and remind me to pause and give thanks. Sometimes it’s a student’s unexpected comment that makes me laugh out loud, a lesson that finally clicks, or a quiet moment at the end of the day as I straighten desks and erase the board. I know this may sound Pollyanna, almost too neat or optimistic, especially to anyone who has felt professionally stuck. But the truth is, I was stuck in higher education, weighed down by roles and rhythms that no longer fit. This shift in perspective didn’t come from naïveté; it came from clarity. And that clarity has been deeply freeing.

In those small, ordinary moments, I feel God’s presence so clearly, a steady reminder that He is near and that this path was never accidental. This gratitude feels different than it has before. It isn’t rooted in novelty or ease, and it certainly doesn’t ignore the hard days. Believe me this work is challenging, and some days I scratch my head on how to reach some of these 8th graders. Instead, the gratitude flows from the peace of knowing I am walking in obedience, stewarding the gifts God has given me in a way that feels honest and aligned.

Some transitions are about growth, about stretching into something unfamiliar. But this one feels like a return, a gentle leading back to who God created me to be in the first place. It’s a homecoming of sorts, marked not by perfection, but by peace, purpose, and a renewed trust in His timing and faithfulness.

Movement, Body, and Belonging

On a lighter note, I am not meant to sit behind a desk. I feel that in my bones. I walk, I move, I dance around my room, and yes, it’s tiring. But it’s the good tired. The kind that fills you up because it comes from being fully alive in your work.

Test days, when I’m suddenly sitting again, feel longer. They remind me of what I was missing: activity, motion, and the simple physical rhythm of a real, full school day.

Growing Into Myself and Not Away From My Story

I am still me. I didn’t leave all my skills behind, I bring them here. All that I learned in higher education, data analysis, leadership, strategy, advocacy, they are now tools I apply in real time with students. I still believe firmly that “detour” into higher ed wasn’t wasted, it was preparation. It shaped the teacher I am today and gave me perspective.

But the difference now is that the work feeds me and not just my resume or boosting me on a leadership organization chart.

This change wasn’t about leaving something bad. It was about recognizing that something good was no longer the right fit for me anymore , and having the courage to follow the whisper that said there was something more waiting.

I am thankful for higher education and all it taught me: the growth, the relationships, and the seasons that shaped me. I’m deeply grateful for the people God placed in my life during those years and for the lessons I carried forward with me. But I am equally grateful that I learned to listen when God began to stir my heart, when the quiet whisper grew clearer and I sensed Him saying, “There is something else for you.” Trusting that nudge required faith, but it led me exactly where I am meant to be.

And that whisper led me here: to a classroom full of life, laughter, challenge, joy, and purpose.

Here’s to the work that lights us up, the journey that shapes us, and the courage to choose what feels right in our bones.

Here’s to finding our why and living it.

I can’t wait to see what the rest of this year brings.

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George Year Eleven

Dear George,

Today you turn eleven and start middle school. I cannot believe that we are at this stage, but welcome to this adventure called middle school! You are about to grow, stretch, stumble, laugh, learn, and change more in the next few years than you may even realize. And that’s okay—middle school is meant to be a little messy.

Here are a few things I want you to know:

  • It’s okay not to have it all figured out. You’re still learning who you are, what you like, and what matters most to you.
  • Mistakes are proof that you’re trying. Some of your biggest lessons won’t come from getting things right the first time, but from trying again.
  • Kindness matters. The way you treat others (and yourself!) will always matter more than grades, clothes, or being “cool.”
  • You are not alone. Even when it feels like no one understands, I promise there are people cheering you on—teachers, friends, family, and more.
  • You are enough. Exactly as you are today, you are worthy of love, respect, and joy.

Middle school is just one chapter in your story, but it’s an important one. Take chances, work hard, be curious, laugh often, and remember—who you are becoming matters more than who you’ve been.

So this is a very special birthday for you, you not only began a brand-new school year but also stepped into middle school today. Eleven is such a special age—you’re right in between being a kid and becoming a teenager. What I love most is how you get the best of both worlds: you still have that playful, silly side that makes life fun, and you’re also starting to see the world in deeper ways, asking big questions and sharing your thoughtful ideas.

I am so proud of you—of your positive attitude, your courage, and most of all, the way you are freely and unapologetically yourself. What a gift to walk into this new chapter on such a meaningful day.

You’ve got this.

Love,

Mom

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Full Circle: From Their Classroom to My Own

As I stand on the edge of my first year of teaching, I’ve been caught between excitement and nerves, wondering how I will show up for my students. In those quiet moments of dreaming about the teacher I hope to become, my thoughts drift back to the people who shaped me most: my own teachers. Some challenged me in ways I didn’t appreciate until years later, others believed in me when I couldn’t believe in myself, and many created spaces where I felt safe to grow. Looking back, I realize the kind of teacher I want to be is deeply rooted in the lessons they gave me—both inside and outside of the classroom.

As I take this step forward, I want to honor those teachers and share some of the lessons they taught me that continue to shape the kind of educator I hope to be.

Mrs. Daily (4th Grade)

If I could give my own “Teacher of the Year” it would hands down go to Mrs. Daily. I remember so much from 4th grade. She brought every lesson to life and was very hands on in her approach. From making a plantation out of milk cartons, to the prairie day with square dancing and candle and corn husk doll making, to turning our classroom into a full on jungle for a classroom production of a story we were reading (picture below of me as an orange bird) . Even now about 30 years later, I still remember the four chambers of the heart because we had to walk through a version that was taped to the floor like we were on an episode of the Magic School Bus. Mrs. Daily taught me so much about how fun learning can be when you make it engaging and curate an experience. She is one of the teachers that inspired me to go into teaching, and why I was an elementary school major at first. (That lasted for a semester, but still…) She is forever one of my favorite teachers, and is someone I look up to when I am trying to come up with ways to engage my classroom.

Mrs. Absher (5th grade)

Mrs. Absher taught me the power of relationships. She was one of the those teachers who kind of just reached into your soul and was able to pull out your super power because she took the time to know you. She was such a kind and caring teacher, and she really made you feel seen. I was very shy in elementary school, and she had a way because of our connection to make me want to come out of my shell. She also kept that relationship going and was a constant cheerleader for me well into college. I remember tutoring in her classroom all during high school because of that relationship she focused so heavily on building. I also learned how to make GORP in 5th grade, which is an important skill. IYKYK.

Mrs. Pickens (7th grade)

She was one of my Social Studies teachers in middle school, but what stands out most to me are the memories of being in the Recycling Club with her. Mrs. Pickens had this way of seeing potential in me that I didn’t yet see in myself. With her encouragement, I found the courage to take on leadership roles and the confidence to step into opportunities I might have otherwise avoided. She didn’t just teach content, she taught me how to believe in myself, how to step outside my comfort zone, and how everyone can create community. Her kindness and steady positivity made such a difference during those pivotal middle school years. Looking back, she is one of the teachers who not only shaped who I became as a student, but also inspired me to want to work with this age group myself, to be that same kind of guiding light for others.

Mrs Reynolds (HS Sociology)

What I remember most about Mrs. Reynolds is how she challenged us to think outside of the box. We didn’t just read text books; most of our class was spent in discussion. She taught me so much about discourse and respectfully seeing different sides. She was able to help us grow in our perspectives and work through really challenging ideas as we were about to embark on the “real world.” I remember how she gave us space to use our voice, but at the same time challenge us to support our thought process outside of group think which can be so prevalent in the teenage years. She was also very invested in our journeys and made us see all the possibilities after high school through our discussions.

My Dad/Mr. Glinn (HS Anatomy and Marine Biology)

I was in my dad’s classes two years in a row. My dad was a great teacher, and I can sing all the accolades about the strategies that he used. However, what I learned most from being in his class is hard work is yours to own. I got teased a lot in his class that he was giving me good grades, but if anyone actually paid attention, I am fairly certain he made me work harder than anyone else in the class. He certainly was not going to hand me that grade, I had to EARN it. Hard work meant a lot there, and I knew that I had to put in the time and effort to get a good result. Granted hard work was always emphasized growing up, but it stood out even more as I sat in his classroom those two years. I also learned from him that it is ok for teachers to infuse their own personality in class. My dad is obsessed with marine life which is hard when you are land-locked in Missouri, and so he built and got approval from the district to have a marine biology course because he was passionate about it. Also he was always being a goof in class, which was normal to see as a dad, but a whole other level of comfort when your daughter is in your class. He was so comfortable in his own shoes, and I believe his goofiness allowed him to connect more with his students (regardless of how embarrassed I may have been.) He embraced it all, and it was fun to see him shine in who he was. Needless to say, that marine biology course was one of my favorites in high school.

Mrs. Blay (Theatre)

I never had Mrs. Blay in a classroom, but I had the privilege of learning from her through the school theatre programs she led. One of the most powerful lessons she taught me came through what was, at the time, one of my most embarrassing moments as a perfectionist. My senior year, I overcommitted myself in a big way, trying to do it all and not being honest about the fact that I was falling short as the sound manager for a show. When I was removed from that role, I felt crushed with shame—not only because I had failed, but because I had let others down. Yet it was in that moment that Mrs. Blay stepped in and refused to let me ignore the reality. She didn’t let me slide, and though it was a hard truth to face, she gave me one of the most important lessons I’ve carried with me since: that accountability and failure are not the end, but the beginning of growth. From her, I learned that saying “no” is not weakness, but wisdom, and that being honest with yourself and others is the only way to lead with integrity. What felt like failure in the moment became a turning point in how I view responsibility, self-awareness, and leadership—lessons I still carry with me today.

Mr. Watring (HS Band)

High school band was more than just a class or an activity, it was a safe haven for me, the place where I felt the most free to be myself. So much of that came from the kind of program Mr. Watring built. He challenged us to strive for excellence, but never at the expense of individuality. He created space for each of us to grow into who we were meant to be. For me, he was instrumental in building my confidence. He recognized strengths I didn’t even know I had and trusted me with leadership roles that stretched and shaped me. From performing in the top concert band all four years to guiding me through the college process, and even connecting me to the professor who would later mentor me in college, his influence reached far beyond the band room. From him, I learned that great teaching is not just about skill, but about truly seeing your students and helping them see the best in themselves. His support, encouragement, and belief in me left a mark I carry with me to this day, and I am forever grateful for the way he used music to teach me lessons about leadership, perseverance, and self-belief.

Dr. Bax (College Political Science)

I had the privilege of taking several classes with Dr. Bax in college, and to be honest, I sought out every course she offered as electives because I respected her that much. What set her apart was her gift for making political science feel alive and relevant. She had a way of taking even the most abstract or distant concept and weaving it into our everyday lives, showing us that what we were learning wasn’t just content—it was connected to who we were and the world around us. From her, I learned the importance of applicability: that when students see the “why” and the “how” behind a lesson, their investment deepens. She showed me that the way you frame a lesson can make all the difference, turning information into meaning and sparking genuine engagement. That approach has stuck with me, and it’s a lesson I hope to carry into my own teaching.

Dr. Tony Cawthon (Grad school professor)

Anyone who has been part of the Clemson program, or even just crossed paths with it, knows the kind of heart Tony pours into everything he does. His love for the program, for the profession, and above all for his students is undeniable. Being in his class, you couldn’t help but feel his passion radiating through every lesson, every conversation, every encouragement. He didn’t just invest in our education, he invested in us as people. That kind of care left a mark, not only strengthening the program but shaping each of us in lasting ways. Decades later, he is still there—cheering us on in the comments, sharing our successes, and celebrating every milestone as if it were his own. Tony isn’t just a teacher; he is the very picture of what it means to teach with heart, and his legacy is written in the lives of his students. He taught me most about legacy and true investment.

Every teacher I’ve had throughout my life has left a mark on me in some way, through their patience, encouragement, creativity, and belief in me. Each of them added a piece to the puzzle that inspired me to become a teacher myself. I carry their lessons with me into my own classroom, hoping to honor the impact they had by teaching with the same care, passion, and dedication. My greatest hope is that my students will feel seen, supported, and inspired in the way my teachers made me feel, and that I can help spark a love of learning that stays with them long after they leave my class.