There’s something bubbling beneath every day lately at work. A thread weaving between the seams, a whispered undercurrent.
“This might be the last time you…” it says.
I try to shake it off — it jars me.
But it’s a persistent little f***er.
“This might be your last chapter book read aloud,” it whispers to me as I put post-its to mark each day in Refugee.
“This might be your last field trip,” it sings as I send the confirmation email to Bowlero.
“This might be the last time you hear that,” it taunts me when I read a Valentine’s card from a student that ends with “I want to be just like you when I grow up.”
“F off,” I will it to leave in my mind.
But I know it will linger. Because the truth is, many of these moments will be the last.
I guess what I’m trying to say is, just because I made the choice to leave the classroom, doesn’t mean it’s easy.
I’m reminded of Vicky’s slice as I think: Why does choosing myself sometimes feel like I’m breaking my heart?
Writing With Abandon 