What Comes Next

There is a strange kind of quiet that comes after you make a big decision.

Not the peaceful kind. The uncertain kind.

After seven years in the same place, in the same classrooms, with the same rhythms and relationships, I am stepping away. Leaving Colorado. Moving to Virginia. Starting over in ways that feel both intentional and completely unknown.

On paper, I have done what I am supposed to do.

I have applied. A lot. School districts. Online teaching roles. Curriculum design positions. I have revised my resume, refined my materials, and put years of experience into words that are meant to speak for me before I ever get the chance to speak for myself.

My resume is strong. I know that.

And still, I am here. Waiting. Wondering.

There is a tension in this space that is hard to explain. It is the space between who you have been and who you are trying to become. Between a chapter that is closing and one that has not fully opened yet.

For seven years, I knew my role. I knew my purpose. I knew where I was needed.

Now, I am asking different questions.

What does it mean to start over when you are not starting from scratch?
What does it look like to carry your experience into a place that does not know you yet?
How do you measure your worth when the responses are quiet?

This is not a story about having it all figured out.

It is about sitting in the uncertainty without rushing to fix it. About continuing to show up, to apply, to hope, even when the outcome is not immediate.

There is also something deeper underneath all of this. A shift in identity. Teaching has not just been my job. It has been a part of who I am. And now, as I look at new opportunities, I find myself asking not just where I will work, but how I want to show up in this next season of my life.

That question does not have a quick answer.

But I am still moving forward.

Application by application. Step by step.

This is what comes next, even if I cannot fully see it yet.

The Long Road to The Long Road to Myself

There is something strange about finishing a memoir, especially one that has been with you for so long.

The Long Road to Myself did not begin as a clear, structured story. It started in fragments. Moments I could not ignore. Questions that did not have easy answers. Pieces of a life that needed time, distance, and honesty before they could fully take shape.

For a long time, it existed in drafts and scattered notes. Rewritten chapters. Sections I avoided. Sections I returned to when I was ready to tell the truth more clearly. Writing it was not a straight path. It was exactly what the title suggests. A long road.

Finishing it did not feel dramatic. It felt quiet. Like setting something down after carrying it for years. Not because the story is simple or resolved, but because it is finally whole.

Now, the process shifts.

I am stepping into the world of querying and searching for literary agents. Learning how to position a deeply personal story in a way that invites others to see its value. Looking for the right fit. Someone who understands that this is more than a memoir. It is a story rooted in identity, education, parenting, and the realities of navigating systems that do not always make space for every experience.

There is vulnerability in this stage. The waiting. The uncertainty. The act of sending your story out and not knowing how it will be received.

But there is also clarity.

This story was never meant to stay with me.

The Long Road to Myself is ready to find its way into the world.

Some moments feel like a quiet continuation of everything that came before. Others feel like a step into something bigger.

This was both.

Walking into the Colorado State Capitol with Alex, I was aware of the weight of where we were. Not just the building itself, but what it represents. Decisions are made there that shape classrooms, define access, and determine what support looks like for students who need it most.

This time, we were not just observing. We were there to speak.

Sitting down with Janice Rich, the conversation centered on literacy, specifically the Colorado READ Act and the ongoing need for meaningful literacy recovery. It was not a theoretical discussion. It was grounded in real classrooms, real students, and the lasting impact of interrupted early learning.

We talked about what happens when foundational reading skills are missed, especially for students who were already navigating additional challenges. We talked about the gaps that do not close on their own, and the urgency of addressing them with intention, resources, and sustained support.

Alex was part of that conversation.

That mattered.

There is something powerful about being in a space where policy is discussed and bringing lived experience into that room. Not as an afterthought, but as something essential. As something that should shape the decisions being made.

It was a reminder that advocacy does not always look loud or polished. Sometimes it looks like showing up, speaking honestly, and trusting that your voice belongs in the room.

This was one of those moments that does not need every detail filled in. It stands on its own as a step forward, a connection between the work happening in classrooms and the decisions being made beyond them.

And it is not the end of the story.

She is the girl who writes things down.

Not just assignments or reminders, but plans. Ideas. Pieces of a future she is still learning how to build. Her notebook is filled with goals that feel both possible and impossibly far away.

She does not always say them out loud.

Sometimes it is because she is still figuring them out. Sometimes it is because she has learned that not everyone knows how to hold someone else’s dreams with care. So she keeps them close, tucked between pages and thoughts, protecting them while they take shape.

In the classroom, she might not be the loudest voice. She might not always get it right the first time. But she pays attention. She tries again. She notices things others miss. There is a quiet determination in the way she shows up, even on the days when showing up feels heavy.

What people do not always see is how much she carries. Expectations. Doubt. The pressure to prove that she is capable in spaces that do not always recognize her strengths. And still, she keeps going.

Goal by goal. Step by step.

She is learning that success does not have to look like anyone else’s version. That her path might take longer, or look different, or require more resilience than she ever expected. But it is hers.

And that matters.

She is a girl with goals. Not because everything is clear or easy, but because she refuses to stop imagining what could be.

There comes a point where staying quiet no longer feels like an option.

For me, that point has been building for years through my work as a teacher and my life as a parent. I have seen the gaps in our systems, the moments where students are misunderstood, and the quiet ways families are left to figure things out on their own. I have also seen resilience, growth, and the kind of strength that rarely gets recognized.

As a parent of a child with autism and ADHD, and as an educator working with diverse learners, I live at the intersection of what is expected and what is real. That space is where this page was born.

I am starting this blog to tell the truth. Not a polished version or a simplified one, but the honest, complicated, and sometimes uncomfortable realities of education, parenting, and neurodiversity. I want to create a space where stories are not filtered to fit expectations, but shared to build understanding.

This is also a space for reflection. Writing has always been a way for me to process, to question, and to make meaning out of experiences that do not always have clear answers. Through this work, I hope to connect with others who are navigating similar paths or who are willing to listen and learn.

There is no single story that defines what it means to teach, to parent, or to advocate. But there is power in sharing the stories we carry.

This is where I begin.