A few days ago, I was scrolling and stopped on a post written by a Cherokee man. He used a word I had never heard before: Gadugi. I kept reading, and then I did what I do. I opened another tab. Then another one. I started researching because I wanted to know what the word meant and why it had stopped me in my tracks.

The Cherokee Nation describes Gadugi as “working together for the common good,” and well, that will make you sit with yourself for a minute. I want to say this carefully because the word is rooted in Cherokee culture and I am not a teacher of Cherokee culture. I am not trying to borrow a word and turn it into a cute saying for a T-shirt. I simply read something shared by a Cherokee man, listened, went looking to learn more, and found myself thinking about a word I have used for years: kindness.

We love kindness. I love kindness. We put BE KIND on shirts and school walls and stickers and hashtags. I have typed #BeKind more times than I could ever count, and I meant it every single time. But I have been wondering if sometimes I have made kindness a little too comfortable.

A smile is kind. A compliment is kind. Holding the door for someone is kind. Sending the text, saying the good thing out loud, and checking on a friend are kind. All of it matters. Mercy, it matters. But “working together for the common good” asks more of me. It asks what I do when the work is inconvenient. It asks whether I will help carry something heavy when it isn't mine. It asks whether I will make room before someone has to beg for a seat. It asks what I am willing to give when nobody is going to clap, post a picture, hand me a certificate, or even know I was there.

Maybe I notice this so much because I spend so much of my life outside. Nature is not very interested in slogans. A fallen tree becomes a nurse log and gives what is left of itself to what comes next. Fungi make connections underground that most of us will never see. Roots hold soil. Flowers feed pollinators, and pollinators carry possibility somewhere else. Salmon return nutrients to rivers and forests. Nobody out there is keeping score, but everything is connected and nothing flourishes alone.

I keep coming back to that. Maybe kindness was never supposed to mean just being nice. Maybe kindness needs hands and feet and a strong back every now and then. Maybe kindness notices who is carrying too much and quietly grabs the other end. Maybe kindness looks around the table and realizes someone is missing. Maybe kindness speaks when silence would be much easier. Maybe kindness does some work.

I will never stop believing in #BeKind. I still think those two little words can change a classroom, a family, a community, and a whole lot of days that are hanging on by a thread. But I want my kindness to roll up its sleeves. I want it to carry the heavy thing and make room. I want it to plant trees whose shade I will never sit under. I want to remember that my flourishing should never require someone else to wither.

Gadugi is not my word to redefine, but I can listen to the people whose word it is. I can learn. I can be grateful that a Cherokee man chose to share it in a place where I happened to read it, and I can let the idea of “working together for the common good” ask some hard questions about the way I am living.

So yes, be kind. I will keep saying it and I will keep believing it. But maybe today I need to ask myself one more question: Is my kindness willing to work?

#BeKind #Gadugi

I have loved this song since I was a little girl. My country, ’tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing. I loved the way the words filled a room. I loved standing beside other people and singing something we all somehow knew. I loved the swell of it, the hope of it, the certainty of it. And all these years later, after seeing more of this country than that little girl could have ever imagined, I still love it. Maybe more now. Maybe differently. But goodness, I still love it.

Because now when I sing my country, I see her. I see mountains catching the first light of morning and rivers winding through places no road could ever reach. I see red rock rising out of desert soil and waves beating against a coastline as if they have been keeping time since the beginning of the world. I see forests where fallen trees become the beginning of something new, salmon fighting their way home, and fireflies blinking in the darkness with absolutely no idea how desperately some of us needed to see a little light.

But I also see the humans. Lord, I see the humans. Not the ones screaming at one another from opposite sides of a screen. Not the ones we are told represent all of us because anger makes better television and division keeps us watching. I see the humans carrying an extra water bottle because somebody might need it. I see the one who slows down on the trail without making the person behind feel slow. I see meals cooked for people who were strangers three days ago and chairs scooted closer because there is always room for one more.

I have watched park rangers kneel in the dirt to show a group of teachers something so small most people would walk right past it. I have watched educators stand in forests with tears running down their faces because somewhere between the moss and the mountains they remembered a part of themselves they thought life had taken. I have watched people dance with strangers, share their first s'more, laugh until they could barely breathe, and call across the darkness, “We are family now.” Tell me goodness is gone, and I will tell you that you simply have not been looking in the right places.

Maybe that is what breaks my heart most about where we are right now. We have been convinced that the loudest people are the most plentiful. We have mistaken cruelty for the character of a country and anger for the language of an entire people. We scroll past ten thousand quiet acts of goodness to stare at one terrible thing, and then we go to bed believing the terrible thing is all there is.

But nature knows better. A nurse log does not announce that it is giving the last of itself back to the forest. A river does not demand applause for carrying life downstream. A cedar does not keep count of every creature sheltered beneath its branches. The wildflowers do not refuse to bloom because the flower beside them is a different color. The mountains have never once asked us to agree before allowing all of us to stand in their shadow.

Perhaps this land has been trying to teach us how to belong to one another since long before we ever learned the words sweet land of liberty. Out here, nothing flourishes alone. The salmon need the river. The forest needs the fallen tree. The flowers need the bees, and the bees need the flowers. Life is passed back and forth in a thousand invisible exchanges, each one whispering the same truth we seem determined to forget: your flourishing and mine were never meant to be separate things.

I am not naive about this country. Loving her does not require me to close my eyes to her wounds. I know there are stories we have failed to tell and people we have failed to see. I know liberty has not always felt sweet to everyone who has sung those words. Love that refuses to tell the truth is not love at all. But neither is despair the only honest response to a complicated story.

I have walked too many miles across this country to believe that hatred is the truest thing about us. I have sat at too many tables where someone made room. I have watched too many hands reach backward on a trail. I have seen people give what they had, carry what someone else could not, and stand beside one another when walking away would have been so much easier. I have seen goodness in hiking boots and ranger hats, behind steering wheels and cafeteria counters, around campfires and beside hospital beds. It is everywhere, y'all. It just rarely has a microphone.

So yes, I still love this song. I still feel something rise in me when I hear my country, ’tis of thee. Not because I believe we have become everything those words ask us to be, but because I still believe we can keep becoming. I believe in the land that keeps showing us what connection looks like, and I believe in the good humans who wake up every morning and choose to make their small corner of it kinder.

Maybe freedom ringing does not always sound like a bell from a mountaintop. Maybe sometimes it sounds like a chair scraping across the floor as someone says, “Sit here.” Maybe it sounds like a name being remembered, a meal being shared, a hand reaching back, or a voice crossing the darkness to tell someone they are family now. Maybe the sweetest sound of liberty is another human being looking at you and saying, without hesitation or condition, “You belong here too.”

My country, ’tis of thee. I loved you as a little girl who knew the words but had barely seen the land she was singing about. I love you now as a woman who has stood beneath your trees, walked beside your rivers, crossed your deserts, watched the sun fall behind your mountains, and met your people. You are beautiful. You are bruised. You are complicated. You are still becoming.

And I still believe there is so much goodness here.

I have seen it with my own eyes.

​When I was in college, my Granny Brown used to tell me, "There's a pot for every lid." At the time, I smiled, nodded, and tucked it away with all the other little bits of grandmotherly wisdom I wasn't quite old enough to appreciate. It sounded sweet, but I didn't really understand it. Then this morning, a dear friend reminded me of those words, and I realized Granny Brown has been quietly shaping STEAM in the PARK all along.

Every summer, educators arrive from every corner of the country. Some walk into camp talking to everyone before they've even unpacked. Others quietly slip into the back of the room, hoping no one notices they're wondering if they belong. Some teach preschool. Others teach chemistry, physics, or high school history. Some have attended several camps. Others pull into the parking lot thinking, "What have I gotten myself into?" Every one of them carries a story. Every one of them carries gifts. Every one of them is hoping—whether they'll admit it or not—that they'll find someone who sees them.

By the end of the week, something beautiful begins to unfold. The birder finds another birder. The artist helps the scientist notice beauty in a different way. The introvert discovers someone else who doesn't mind long, quiet walks. The loud ones laugh together. The thoughtful ones linger over coffee. Somewhere between washing dishes, hiking a trail, paddling a canoe, sketching in a journal, or sitting around a campfire, strangers begin to feel like family.

This week, one of our campers pulled me aside and said, "Did you know that the camper I met last summer is now my best friend?" I smiled because I knew they live hundreds of miles apart. Just a year ago, they had never met. Now they talk almost every day. That's when Granny Brown's words came rushing back. There's a pot for every lid.

You know how Jimmy Stewart tells us in It's a Wonderful Life that every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings? Well, around STEAM in the PARK, we have our own version. Every time someone finds their people, a pot gets its lid. And if that's true, we've filled an awful lot of kitchen cabinets over the past fifty camps.

The funny thing is, we spend months planning every detail of these weeks. We schedule hikes, organize lessons, prepare journals, gather supplies, coordinate meals, and pray over every camp. But there is one thing we cannot schedule: belonging. That is something that unfolds when people are simply given permission to be themselves. It happens in conversations we never planned, in laughter we couldn't have scripted, and in quiet moments that somehow become sacred. It grows almost like roots beneath a forest floor, unnoticed at first, until one day people look around and realize they've found home in one another.

I've watched those friendships become classroom collaborations, family vacations, prayer partners, wedding invitations, and people who show up for one another when life gets unimaginably hard. They didn't come looking for lifelong friends. They came to learn in a national park. Yet somehow, they leave carrying far more than field journals and photographs. They leave carrying one another.

Granny Brown was right. There really is a pot for every lid. Sometimes we spend so much of our lives trying to fit into places that were never meant for us that we begin to wonder if something is wrong with us. Maybe nothing is wrong at all. Maybe we're simply standing in the wrong kitchen. The right people won't ask you to become someone else before they welcome you. They'll simply be grateful you showed up.

I think that's one of the greatest gifts of STEAM in the PARK. Yes, we learn about glaciers, forests, birds, watersheds, and national parks. But beneath all of that, something even more important is taking place. Educators discover they don't have to perform, impress, or pretend. They don't have to be the funniest, the smartest, or the most experienced person in the room. They simply have to bring the person God created them to be. That has always been enough.

So every summer, I leave another national park believing what my Granny Brown knew all those years ago. Somewhere between the trail and the campfire, another pot found its lid.

Keep being a good human.

​One of the hardest things about being an ADHD creator, inventor, designer, dreamer, or entrepreneur is that rest rarely feels like rest. Our minds are always building something. A new project. A better system. A different way to solve a problem. A camp. A lesson. A book. A business. A dream that doesn't exist yet but somehow already feels real.

For years, I thought rest meant stopping. The problem is that many creative minds don't know how to stop. We are wired to notice possibilities. We see connections where others see separate pieces. We are constantly imagining what could be. Even when we sit still, our minds are often traveling a hundred miles ahead of us.

What I've learned is that rest for creators often looks different than it does for other people. Sometimes rest is taking a walk without a destination. Sometimes it's sitting beside a river, watching clouds move across the sky, or wandering through a national park with no agenda beyond paying attention. Sometimes it's reading a book, planting flowers, taking photographs, doodling in a notebook, or building something simply because it brings joy.

The challenge is that we often turn everything into productivity. We start a hobby and immediately wonder if it could become a side business. We take photos and think about social media posts. We have an idea and immediately begin plans and timelines. Before long, even the things that once brought us peace become another item on our to-do list.

The older I get, the more I realize that not everything has to become something. Not every idea needs to be pursued. Not every photograph needs to be shared. Not every dream needs a business plan. Some things can exist simply because they make us happy.

The truth is that creativity requires fuel. The ideas, inventions, lessons, businesses, books, and programs we create don't come from constantly pushing harder. They come from giving our minds space to wander, wonder, and breathe. They come from laughter, friendship, nature, quiet moments, and experiences that remind us there is more to life than checking the next thing off a list.

If you're an ADHD creator, inventor, designer, educator, or entrepreneur, consider this your reminder that you do not always have to be building. You do not always have to be producing. You do not always have to be solving the next problem. Sometimes the most important work is simply allowing yourself to be present in the moment you are already living.

The next great idea will come. It always does. But today, maybe the gift is allowing yourself to rest long enough to notice the beauty that is already right in front of you.

P.S. As I write this, I'm sitting beside a campfire in the Skagit Valley of Washington. The mourning doves are calling from somewhere beyond the trees, and western tanagers are moving through the evening light. For once, I'm trying not to turn the moment into a project. Although, admittedly, I did just write a blog post about it. Some things never change.

​When people talk about why national parks matter, they usually start with the obvious things: the mountains, the waterfalls, the wildlife, and the breathtaking views that leave us speechless. And they're right. Those things matter. They inspire us. They remind us that there is still beauty in the world and that some places are worth protecting.

But after spending years working with more than 220 National Park Service sites, I've come to believe that the greatest treasure in our national parks isn't found on a trail, in a canyon, or at the top of a mountain. It's the people.

Over the years, Steve and I have been blessed to spend time with park rangers from Alaska to Florida, from Maine to California. We've met them through our Crossing America series with the National Park Foundation. We've learned alongside them during STEAM in the PARK adventures. We've watched them welcome visitors, teach students, answer questions, solve problems, and care for places that millions of people will enjoy but few will truly understand the way they do.

And what strikes me every single time is that they never make it about themselves.

Many of them are scientists, historians, educators, artists, storytellers, researchers, and leaders. They carry extraordinary knowledge and experience. Yet the best rangers always seem more interested in helping someone else discover something than in showing how much they know.

I've watched a ranger kneel beside a child examining a salamander. I've watched a scientist's eyes light up while explaining a dragonfly larvae project. I've watched interpreters bring history to life so vividly that visitors felt as though they had stepped into another time. I've watched educators stay long after a program ended because someone still had questions.

Those moments stay with people.

In fact, through our work with students and educators, we've learned something surprising. Years later, people often don't remember every fact they learned. They remember how someone made them feel. They remember the ranger who encouraged them. They remember the scientist who invited them into the research. They remember the educator who helped them notice something they would have otherwise walked right past.

The person becomes part of the place.

That has certainly been true for us. When I think about Great Smoky Mountains, I think about the people who welcomed us there. When I think about New River Gorge, I think about Ranger Lori. When I think about Voyageurs, Acadia, Olympic, Glacier, Indiana Dunes, and dozens of other places, I don't just remember the landscapes. I remember the people.

The parks are extraordinary, but it is the people who bring them to life.

I've often said that national parks are America's greatest classrooms. What I know now is that every great classroom has great teachers, and our national parks are filled with them.

At a time when it can be easy to focus on what divides us, national parks remind us of something different. They remind us that there are still people who wake up every morning committed to protecting places they love and helping others love them too. They remind us that curiosity still matters. Wonder still matters. Stewardship still matters.

So today, I'm grateful for the mountains and rivers, the forests and deserts, the wildlife and wild places. But more than that, I'm grateful for the people.

The people who have welcomed us into more than 220 National Park Service sites. The people who have partnered with us through Crossing America. The people who have shared their expertise during STEAM in the PARK. The people who have answered questions, shared stories, inspired educators, and helped millions of students see the world with fresh eyes.

It's not just about the mountains but the mountain movers. 

Another guest post by educator Becky Bodenchak.

There’s something powerful that happens when learning stops feeling like an assignment…and starts feeling like an experience.

This year, my 5th graders didn’t just learn about national parks—they became explorers, scientists, historians, and even park rangers. What began as a research project turned into a full-scale National Park Display Night, where our classroom transformed into a living, breathing museum of the natural world.

And honestly? It was one of those moments that reminds you exactly why you teach.

More Than a Project—An Experience

Each group of students chose a national park and dove deep into its story. But this wasn’t just surface level research. They explored their parks through multiple lenses:

• Flora – What plants grow here? How do they survive?
• Fauna – What animals call this place home?
• Geography – What physical features make this park unique?
• Indigenous Perspectives – Who lived here first, and how did they care for the land?
• A Day in the Life of a Ranger – Writing from a real-world perspective
• Invasive Species – Investigating modern environmental challenges

Students didn’t just collect facts—they made meaning. They asked questions, made connections, and began to understand the balance between humans and nature.

Learning You Can See (and Feel)

Every piece of learning came together on vibrant tri-fold display boards, filled with hand drawn illustrations, maps, research, and writing.
You could see:

• Carefully labeled plant classifications
• Animal sketches with habitat explanations
• Maps showing geographic features
• Thoughtful reflections on Indigenous history
• Creative writing that put you inside the boots of a park ranger
• Real-world problem solving around invasive species

These weren’t just posters. They were stories. They were voices. They were evidence of deep thinking.

The Magic of Family Night

The real transformation happened when the doors opened for our school community.

Students stood proudly beside their displays, explaining their learning to families, teachers, and peers. They answered questions, shared insights, and, without even realizing it, became teachers themselves.

Parents didn’t just walk through an event. They experienced:

• A 5th grader explaining how an ecosystem works
• A student passionately describing why invasive species matter
• A young learner honoring the history of Indigenous peoples
• A child confidently saying, “Let me show you what I learned.”

That kind of ownership? You can’t fake it. You build it.

Why This Matters

This project is what happens when education moves beyond worksheets and into the real world.

Students:

• Developed research and critical thinking skills
• Practiced public speaking and communication
• Built empathy and perspective taking
• Engaged in real environmental issues
• Created something meaningful and lasting

They didn’t just learn about national parks—they learned how to care about them.

A Call to Educators and Supporters

To my fellow educators:
This kind of learning is possible. It doesn’t require perfection, it requires purpose. When we give students meaningful work connected to the real world, they rise to meet it every time.

Projects like this thrive on access to materials, printing resources, books, and time to create. This work fuels curiosity, confidence, and connection.

It helps create moments where a child discovers:

“I can do this. My ideas matter.”

Final Thoughts

If you had walked into our classroom that night, you wouldn’t have just seen tri-fold boards.

You would have seen:

• Future scientists
• Thoughtful citizens
• Curious explorers
• Confident communicators

And maybe, just maybe…a few future park rangers.

By: Becky Bodenchak
​

This is a guest blog post by one of the educators following Expeditions in Eduction. Many thanks to Becky Bodenchak.

On December 12th, 2025, my classroom became something pretty magical. Instead of four walls and desks, we were suddenly standing in snow covered valleys, coastal cliffs, and icy forests, right alongside park rangers from across the country during the “Crossing America 5.0: Holiday in the Parks” livestream.

More than 15,000 students joined in that day, but in our little corner of the world, something powerful was happening: my 5th graders weren’t just watching, they were thinking, questioning, experimenting, and connecting.

A Front-Row Seat to Winter in the Parks

As rangers guided us through 19 national park sites, students saw firsthand how winter shapes life. They learned how bison push through deep snow, elk conserve energy, owls hunt silently in frozen forests, and bears disappear into hibernation.

But instead of passively observing, we anchored the experience with a focused lesson:

How do animals actually survive winter?

Discover It: Sparking Curiosity

We began with a simple but powerful question:

“What challenges do animals face in winter?”

The responses came quickly: cold, hunger, snow, darkness—but then we pushed deeper:

“How would YOU survive if you had to live outside all winter?”

Students paused. Thought. Imagined.

If I were a wolf, I would stay with my pack to keep warm.
If I were a bear, I would eat a lot before winter so I could sleep.

Right away, they were stepping into the perspective of wildlife, an essential piece of real world, place-based learning. 

Dig Into It: Learning by Doing

Then came the experiment: Students tested how insulation works using ice cubes, wrapping them in materials like cotton, strips of coffee filters, and dough. One cube was left bare as a control.

It was simple. It was hands-on. And it was powerful.

They weren’t just hearing about “blubber” or “fur”—they were seeing insulation in action.

As they observed which ice cube melted slowest, the connections started clicking:

• Cotton = fur
• Coffee filter strips = feathers
• Dough = blubber

Make Sense of It: From Activity to Understanding

We gathered to make sense of what we saw.Students explained, in their own words, why some “animals” stayed colder longer. They began distinguishing between:

• Physical adaptations → fur, feathers, fat
• Behavioral adaptations → migration, hibernation, storing food

Connect It: Making It Personal

We ended by bringing it back to their world.

“How are our winter traditions similar to animal survival strategies?”

Students made connections like:

• Wearing coats = fur and feathers
• Drinking hot cocoa = maintaining body warmth
• Gathering with family = staying safe and supported

One student said:
“Animals and humans both survive winter by finding ways to stay warm and using what they have to help them.”

This wasn’t just a science lesson. It was:

• Place-based learning → connecting students to real national parks
• Real-world application → understanding survival, adaptation, and environment
• Student-centered exploration → questioning, experimenting, reflecting

And maybe most importantly…

It made learning feel real.

And for a moment, thanks to a livestream and a thoughtfully designed lesson, they weren’t just learning about national parks… They were part of them.

By: Becky Bodenchak

​

Ten years ago today, Steve told me he wanted to talk about our future. I was a little nervous. Usually those words can go in a lot of different directions. But within a few minutes, I realized this conversation was something exciting.
Steve had been thinking about what life might look like if we left our jobs, jobs we truly loved and were good at, and took a chance on something completely different. He talked about traveling together, sharing our experiences with others, and building a life centered around adventure, education, and making a difference. At one point, he told me that I had been the backup singer in the band long enough and that it was time for me to be the lead singer.

We talked about how fun it would be to travel together, work together, and spend our days creating something meaningful. We also talked about the uncertainty. We would be leaving stable careers. We didn't know where our money would come from. We weren't in a position to retire. There were plenty of reasons to stay exactly where we were. But for some crazy reason, those things didn't bother us as much as they probably should have.
In fact, the very next morning, I gave my 30-day notice.

And just like that, with a few roadblocks and detours along the way, we began a journey that would eventually become Expeditions in Education.
​
Has it always been easy? Absolutely not. There have been moments of uncertainty and worry. I still wonder sometimes how we're going to pay the bills. We don't have sick days. We don't have the safety net that comes with traditional jobs. But what we do have is so much more.

We've traveled the country together. We've worked side by side every day. We've met incredible people. We've built friendships that will last a lifetime. We've connected millions of students and educators with national parks, scientists, and opportunities they may never have experienced otherwise. Most importantly, we've built a life that feels true to who we are.
Today marks ten years of saying yes to adventure, yes to the unknown, and yes to a leap of faith that changed everything. If I could leave you with one piece of encouragement, it would be this: Take the leap. Jump in with both feet. Do something that matters. Be a good human. You never know where that decision might lead. For us, it led to the adventure of a lifetime. Tomorrow we begin Year 11, and I couldn't be more grateful for the journey. Here's to many more years of adventure ahead.

These are photos from those few months before we hit the road the first time.

There was a year when I inherited a 5th grade classroom that had already been through a lot. My students had spent the previous year moving through multiple teachers, substitutes, interruptions, and uncertainty. Many came with behaviors that people noticed before they noticed anything else. Some were angry. Some had shut down. Some had simply learned that school was a place you got through.

And then there was math.

Fifth grade math is no joke. Fractions, decimals, geometry, coordinate planes, volume, measurement, data, problem solving. For many of my students, math meant worksheets, unfinished pages, and another reminder that they were struggling.

I knew I could not teach it from a book alone.

So we turned math into experiences.

We created our own concerts. Students wrote math songs, built beats with pencils and desktops, clapped rhythms, and created performances to help remember concepts. The room was loud. Really loud. But it was the kind of loud where kids were learning without realizing they were learning. Students who usually wanted out of class suddenly wanted extra rehearsal time.

Fractions became bakeries and pizza shops. We designed menus, cut pizzas into slices, worked through equivalent fractions, doubled recipes, divided portions, and argued over who had the bigger piece of cake. I learned quickly that fifth graders will defend mathematical reasoning with great passion when brownies are involved.

Measurement became sewing. I brought in fabric, measuring tapes, rulers, buttons, and patterns. Students measured seams, estimated lengths, planned projects, and discovered that being off by even half an inch mattered. Suddenly precision was important because it was real.

Coordinate planes moved onto the floor. We taped giant grids across the classroom and students became the points. They walked coordinates, built shapes, found vertices, and moved through lessons instead of staring at graph paper.

Volume turned into architecture. We built little houses, stores, towers, and cities from boxes, paper, and recycled materials. Students calculated dimensions, changed measurements, rebuilt designs, and learned quickly that one wrong number changed everything.

One of my favorite projects was opening travel agencies. Students planned dream trips with real budgets. They figured hotel costs, meals, souvenirs, gas, distances, and spending limits. One group planned a huge national park adventure. Another somehow spent half their money on snacks before leaving.

Word problems became skits. If the problem was about shopping, we opened stores. If it was about construction, students became builders. If it involved time, we acted it out.

Math stopped living on worksheets.
It lived in the room.

Looking back now, I realize I was doing more than teaching math. I was trying to rebuild confidence. The student who struggled to sit still became the lead in our concert project. The student everyone worried about became the expert in the bakery. Kids who hated math started asking what we were doing next.

And then came the moment that still follows me.

I was teaching one of those lessons where I had completely committed to the performance. Somehow I ended up standing on a table. I was explaining, gesturing, probably being far more dramatic than necessary, when I lost my balance and fell straight off.

Sprained ankle.
The room went silent.
The same students everyone called difficult stood there completely worried.
I was embarrassed.
They were horrified.
​Eventually we laughed.
​
When I think back on that class, I do not remember the tests first. I remember the songs. I remember pizza fractions. I remember fabric spread across tables and tiny buildings sitting everywhere. I remember students who had every reason to quit deciding to try again. And somewhere in that memory is a teacher with a sprained ankle still planning the next math lesson because the story was never really about math. It was about kids who needed someone to believe they could still shine.