Perfection isn’t just unnecessary. It’s the enemy of good teaching.
I learned that the hard way while being a Voices of Change fellow. It started in that first workshop, learning how to pitch. Writing a pitch felt like peeling off skin. I realized right then that this wouldn’t be about polishing some professional mask. It was going to force a vulnerability deeper than anything I modeled for my own students.
I had to face myself. Not the teacher. Just the human.
The fellowship proved what makes you weird is what makes you effective. Forget restating well-researched “best practices.” Those are dry. Your specific voice, your reflections—that’s the only currency you have. The more specific I got, the clearer my writer’s voice became. Authenticity isn’t a buzzword, it’s a survival tactic for the classroom.
The birds, the boredom, and the brain
I wrote about two birds flying into my room. Chaos ensues. Curriculums derail.
My editor told me to keep the birds. Play is education. That sentence saved me. It let me breathe when things went sideways. It’s okay to slow down. Community matters more than the pacing guide.
Then there was the essay on neurodivergence. That one terrified me. I used to resent my own brain. Thought it was a liability. Writing about it connected me to other neurodivergent teachers. Suddenly, my difference wasn’t a deficit, it was a lens.
Why write about the thing that scares you most? Because the truth hits harder than the theory.
Finding the voice in the noise
You think you’ve covered everything. Boredom. AI. Allyship. The topics are beaten to death. My editor said “no.” Said my perspective still mattered even if the subject felt recycled.
So I looked closer.
Mundane teaching days hide kernels of truth. If you’re just waiting for the big moments, you’re missing the actual work. Paying attention changes how you show up.
Being the mess
I feel more embodied now. More present.
When you accept yourself, you extend that grace outward. You have more empathy for a student’s off day because you understand your own. You give better encouragement because you know the effort costs something.
Education isn’t about control. It’s about courage. The kind that lets you share yourself publicly even when you’re shaking. The same courage you need to walk into a room of twenty distracted teenagers and actually connect.
Since finishing, I don’t just see myself as a teacher. I’m a writer. A thinker. An observer who has actual things to say.
The joy was always in the messy process itself, chipping away at the fear until there was nothing left but the voice. Now I tell my students the hardest lesson I ever learned.
Trust yourself.
Even if it’s not ready. Even if it’s wrong.
