When I was a little girl, I always dreaded the first day of school. It wasn’t that I didn’t like school. I’ve always enjoyed school, mostly because I love learning new things. I always manage to settle in pretty quickly, but it was the moments leading up to it that were the worst. It’s why I’ve always hated August. August has always been synonymous with school. It was the last month of freedom, the last month where I could stay up late and not have to worry about test and papers and new people (all of the things that I secretly adore, but somehow forget I adore when I’m not being an active participant). Every August, my stomach would start twisting and turning as the dread set in.
The only time it really lessened was when I was in college. I have no idea why. I think I may have felt a bit anxious before starting grad school, but that was before I realized that grad school was just like being an undergrad, only the papers were a few pages longer and my classmates used bigger words.
And then I became an adult, or some semblance of one, and I figured that was it. The August dread was over…but no. That wasn’t the case. Because I decided to become a teacher and even though I know that everything is going to be okay, I still feel that doubt growing inside of me. That stupid irrational fear that this year is going to be awful. That I’m going to hate everything. That things aren’t going to work out. That I’m going to screw up. Tomorrow, I start my second year as a full time teacher and I’m terrified.
“But you’re a preschool teacher!,” the rational side of my brain is telling me. “The kids will love you! Kids always love you!.” “But what if they don’t?,” says the other side. The crazy one. “What if they don’t? What if they hate me? What if I don’t work well with my new team of teachers? What if we don’t click? What if….?”
It goes on and on. This has been my internal dialogue since August 1st. And instead of reminding myself that I was hired for a reason (that I was rehired for a reason), that I’m good with kids, that I love teaching, I fret.
Last year, I (along with my teacher team) experienced something that most teachers never ever experience, but I got through it with the help of my colleagues and a lot of other wonderful people, but I worry that it’ll happen again and that I won’t know how to cope. But then I remember last week, when I was hanging out at my former job, watching children I used to take care of when they were toddlers and looking at the awesome people that they’ve become, and that voice in my head gets a little quieter. I think about my students from last year and how proud I am of how much they learned and grew last year. I think of their accomplishments and I take a few seconds to think about mine. The voice gets even quieter.
I read through this entry. I read through the letter I wrote myself at the end of last year: …Learn. Learn from your fellow teachers. Absorb ideas. Remember that people believe in you and your abilities, so you should do the same. Meet every challenge head on. Ask questions. Speak up. Take notes. Smile. Breathe. Live. Love your job.
The voice is gone.
[To all of my fellow teachers (and students): Have a beautiful school year. Remember that we're all a little scared (and maybe a little sad that the summer is over), but that great things await.]
[Dear B, I think about you all the time. I miss you. Thank you for making me a better teacher and person.]
