The Classroom I Still Carry

Why choosing to stay home doesn't mean I stopped missing the classroom.

Labor Day has come and gone.

The school buses are back. Fresh crayons have been opened. Bulletin boards have been decorated. Teachers are learning new names, parents are settling into routines, and classrooms are beginning to feel like home again.

And every September, a small part of me feels like I’m supposed to be there.

For fifteen years, the school calendar wasn’t just part of my life—it was my life.

I measured my years by first days of school instead of Januarys. I knew exactly how a classroom felt in early September. The nervous excitement. The freshly sharpened pencils. The possibility that comes with a room full of children you haven’t met yet but know you’ll love.

Even now, I still find myself wondering what grade I’d be teaching this year.

Would I have my classroom library arranged already? What bulletin board theme would I have chosen? Which students would make me laugh every day?

Those thoughts still sneak in.

At the same time, I look across my kitchen and see Henry happily eating breakfast while Charlotte tells me a story that’s somehow both completely made up and entirely believable.

I get to spend slow mornings at home.

I get to cheer Charlotte on at gymnastics every Wednesday.

I get to rock Henry to sleep for his naps, knowing that one day he’ll stop fitting so perfectly in my arms.

Those moments are ordinary.

They’re also the moments I once hoped I’d get to have.

When Danny and I talked about whether I should return to work this school year, my first thought wasn’t about lesson plans or meetings.

It was about missing these little moments.

The breakfasts.

The playground trips.

The middle-of-the-day hugs.

The ordinary Tuesdays that become childhood memories.

Together, we decided that I would stay home another year.

It was the right decision.

I have never questioned that.

But making the right decision doesn’t erase the feeling that part of me still belongs somewhere else, too.

Because here’s the funny thing about teachers:

We’re never really done being teachers.

Put me next to another educator and within minutes we’re talking shop.

We’ll discuss curriculum changes, classroom management, funny things kids have said, or ways to support struggling learners.

Something in my brain immediately lights up.

I miss those conversations.

I miss collaborating with colleagues.

I miss solving problems.

I miss watching a child finally understand something they’ve been working so hard to learn--the lightbulb moment.

I miss using the part of my brain that spent two master’s degrees and fifteen years learning how to help children grow.

For a while, I felt guilty admitting that.

Shouldn’t staying home be enough?

Shouldn’t I feel completely fulfilled?

But I’ve realized those two feelings aren’t competing.

They’re simply both true.

I can deeply love being home with Charlotte and Henry while still missing the career that shaped so much of who I am.

I can be incredibly grateful for this season while also feeling nostalgic for another one.

Those things don’t cancel each other out.

If anything, they remind me that I was fortunate enough to love both.

Maybe that’s what happens when you’ve found purpose in more than one place.

Right now, my classroom looks different.

Instead of morning meetings, we read books on the couch.

Instead of lesson plans, I’m teaching Charlotte how to be a kind friend and Henry how to clap his hands.

Instead of report cards, I celebrate new words, brave moments, and tiny milestones that only their parents notice.

My students just happen to call me Mommy.

The work isn't all that different. I'm still teaching patience, kindness, curiosity, resilience, and a love of books. The classroom just got a little smaller.

And while I don’t know exactly what the future holds, I don’t think the teacher in me is gone.

She’s simply teaching somewhere else for a little while.

This September, I’m learning that it’s okay to miss the classroom without wanting to leave home.

Sometimes the greatest privilege isn’t choosing between two lives you love.

It’s having lived one and getting to fully embrace the other.