Every January, I write down words I hope will shape the year ahead. One year, I wrote: take risks on faith. I didn’t know that would mean leaving a job of 13 years, starting over as a new teacher again, and trusting a feeling I couldn’t fully explain — only feel.

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2023 and 2024 visions in the back of my favorite planner held phrases like “take risks on faith” and “follow my strengths” – and even, get this– “start a blog.” I would write down what I wanted to work toward and, for the most part, close the planner and jump into the new year. 

As I cleared out those 20 planners a few months ago, I was sure to rip out all of my vision pages and keep them safe.

Word to the wise: be careful what you envision–it might just come true, and in all the best ways you didn’t know you needed… 

After 12 years in teaching English in the same high school, I took a risk in 2024 to send out my resume. As much as I loved working there at the beginning of my career, I was craving growth and change. I couldn’t imagine working anywhere else… but at the same time, I was filled with a sense of “knowing” it was time for me to grow. 

I had been working in the same school for over a decade. I loved it there—for the first 6 years. It’s only in hindsight and with honesty that I can recognize those next 6 years were filled with uncertainty, stress, and frustration. After my first daughter was born and I was expecting the second, I advocated for a raise in my end of year meeting. I was told there simply was no money. This may have been true, but after years of no raise, no sight of a step pay scale, and uncertain times in the future, this crucial conversation was my first courageous step to advocate for my needs and worth. 

I can see that now. 

While I was “in it,” I held onto the good years of fun, lifelong friendships, pride, and amazing experiences with my students. With every colleague who retired or moved on to a new chapter in life, with every personnel shift that brought change–some good, some bad, with the change of the times and historical events–all emotionally draining and  each chipping away at the golden years.

The erosion of joy was slow, but then all at once. 

From 2022-2024, I frequently wrote in my journal that I felt a shift. Something new was coming for me, but hadn’t made itself known. I had to be patient. 

I can only describe this as a “knowing,” which fills your soul with peace that transcends understanding. I just knew I wasn’t meant to stay at that school forever. I was getting bored grading essays and while I found joy in writing new curriculum and creating fun lessons for my classes, I wasn’t in an environment that celebrated that anymore. It was busy surviving. I wanted to thrive and have vision. This, I knew. 

Thank God and my mother that I had had a knowing in the fall of that year when I had taken a full day to get my teaching license finalized. There had been bureaucratic setbacks with issuing me the license and it had never been a priority because it was not required where I was teaching. My life had been turbulent while the license sat pending and expired in my teaching account. I took a full day to get my teaching license finalized. 

At that moment in time, having my license issued validated my career in education– I was seen in the eyes of the state. More so than that, I did it for me. My life’s circumstances and my inability to close the loop prevented me from moving forward. I was choosing to show up for myself the way I had supported everyone else. 

I did it. Something unlocked in me with the issuance of those certificates. I carried on my teaching and mom-life routines, never thinking about next steps. 

When the opportunity to take free graduate credit was presented, I was the only faculty member to complete the paperwork and sign up for a course. With two babies at home and a busy spring schedule filling my calendar, this was not an ideal time to be saddled with more work. 

I knew I needed something just for me. I took a look at the free course offerings, which were limited, but a digital media class sounded interesting. 

All of the course work was submitted on a blog we had to create ourselves. I loved designing my blog and responding to my classmates’ posts. I could lose hours working with format and graphics and writing is my happy place. 

I completed the course, got my A, and never returned to the blog. 

Meanwhile, the school was facing major changes and board members were brought in to have small group forums with teachers. As a stakeholder of the school and true believer in the incredible impact it has on students, I went. 

I can see now that this forum was the second painful step in my growth toward fighting for my worth. 

Two board members and a liaison sat in room 214, a room where my best friend and I had taught for years before she left and I took on different positions and eventually had a different classroom assigned to me. It held happy memories of class activities and lunches filled with laughter. I always absolutely loved decorating my classroom every August to reflect the year’s themes, both for myself and my students. 

Joy. I had spent years of my life in that room teaching, grading papers, setting up for homeroom parties. 

The joy was gone. 

As I stepped into the room, I noted the current state of the room was night-and-day different from my memories. Did the decor get the job done? Yes, but it was perfunctory and sparse. 

The board members sat waiting for us expectantly. I took a seat next to my two colleagues. Most of the conversation among my colleagues and the board members is fuzzy now, two years later. What I do remember is my colleagues exploding with frustrations at the way the school had been run, the conditions under which we had been working, and the concern about change erasing the special culture of our building. I agreed with some of their points, but did not jump in on the complaint train because I knew our administrators had done the best they could under incredibly challenging circumstances.   

I was surprised that neither had mentioned our lack of a pay scale. Forget about a quality of life raise. 

I sat quietly in wait. Patience in the pause. 

The bell rang. 

My colleagues got up to teach their next class and looked at me while I didn’t budge. I smiled and wished them a good day. 

I had another free period that day, by some miracle. 

I waited for them to leave. The door of 214 to close. For the 3 women sitting in front of me to lock eyes and start their questions, apparently ready to hear my concerns. 

I started to speak and was surprised by my voice. 

It was strong. Unwavering. Clear. 

They said they were interested in the future of the school. I told them I didn’t know who they were and, no, I didn’t trust them with my school. 

They looked at me with shocked faces. I didn’t speak with venom as my colleagues had, but with peace and firmness. 

I reminded them, quite factually, that when they came to the faculty meeting to drop the life-changing news, not only were they late, but they had joked they couldn’t figure out how to get into the building or find the cafeteria. So… no. I didn’t trust that they cared about the school when they didn’t know who I was as a long-standing faculty member and I had never seen them before that fateful day. 

I introduced myself to them. Told them what I had accomplished at the school. Most importantly, told them what I believed in: MY interests in bringing back the golden years. 

One board member did most of the talking. She had held a high position in public school and spoke to me as an administrator would. I did the same. 

She toed the company line. I toed mine. 

Finally, I said: you’re paying me–a veteran teacher–less than what the public school pays their first year. If the board wanted quality, dedicated faculty to stay, we deserved a pay scale evaluation.

She told me I should be grateful to work where I did and that the other benefits outweighed the paycheck.

She wasn’t hearing me, or so I thought at the time. I looked right at her and asked, “If I walked into your office for an interview right now with the experience I hold, what would you pay me in the public school system?” 

She said I would get paid maybe $70k a year, but none of my experience would be taken. It would be ignored. That’s even IF I got hired, which is nearly impossible. Schools were laying off teachers after the Covid money ran out. It’s all about who you know–and who did I know as a city private school teacher? So I should be happy to be here where I have a job. 

The conversation ended and I walked across the hall to my new classroom.

I distinctly remember closing my door behind me, walking slowly to my desk at the front of the room, and looking out the window over the beautiful lawn. It was a perfectly sunny spring day, and I was filled with knowing. 

If you have experienced this “knowing,” you know you can’t unknow once you know. And you know this knowing never comes at a good time. 

The knowing crept in slowly and all at once. I knew I was done. This chapter in my life was over. I would not return in the fall for another year. This graduating class would be my last and I should enjoy every minute and try to remember everything. 

I didn’t know what was waiting for me after I left my home away from home, but a breakthrough was near. I just knew. 

Most importantly, I knew: I would figure it out. 

Over the weekend, I updated my cover letter and finalized my resume. I applied to openings in the local public schools, not expecting to hear from anyone. 

That board member lit a fire in me that had been dormant under life’s blanket for far too long. I would prove her wrong. I could get hired somewhere. I was a strong candidate. 

Watch me, I thought in a challenging voice. 

I was fighting for my worth after erosion. 

A few weeks later, one of the top districts in the area requested an interview on Google Meet. I couldn’t believe it! I felt more alive than I had in years. Someone wanted to talk to me. And not just any district–one of the top. 

The interview was horrible, at least from my vantage point. It was my first professional interview in well over a decade and I felt rusty and anxious. About halfway through the conversation, I knew this place was not a fit for me at this moment in my life. I can’t explain why– I just knew. 

When the “thanks for your time” email hit my inbox, the only thing that surprised me was the wave of grief that smashed into my soul. It wasn’t about the school itself, but the rejection felt personal when it was obviously business. I thought maybe the board member’s words were true. 

I kept going. Applying. Walking in faith and knowing that something was in store for me. 

A few short weeks after that, I applied to another top district. 

I got an email inviting me to a Zoom interview. 

Then another committee interview. 

Then a demo lesson. 

It happened at lightning speed and everything felt right, even though I couldn’t fully accept the knowing. I knew I had it. 

Then a superintendent meeting. 

I was 10 minutes away from the school after that meeting when my phone rang with the job offer. At one of the top districts in the area. 

I nearly had an accident when I was told the pay. This is one of my core memories. 

It was a pay cut. 

That board member was right. There was no recognition of years. 

I wrote an email to HR. I had a closed-door conversation with the woman who hired me who assured me that she had similar roots and this position would change the trajectory of my life. Her humanity resonated and I am grateful to her for that moment. I heard her and knew she was right, but the paycheck still ate at me. I was leaving everything I knew to be untenured and unsure and a new teacher all over again with two babies at home who needed me. 

They valued my experience but couldn’t pay for it—and I had to decide whether growth was worth the risk. 

I decided I would accept the job with dignity as I had found my voice.

I was still devastated. It bothered me for months into that new school year in a new district, but I knew the benefits of this job extended well beyond the paycheck. 

I could finally grow. Start fresh. Be challenged. Find my fire again. 

The new position challenged me to build from my English teacher roots… into a towering position… overnight. I had to reinvent myself and learn all new technology and new curriculum while adjusting to teaching in one of the top ranked districts in the area. 

On my hardest days, I am still filled with knowing that this is where I’m meant to be right now. 

From this chapter in my life, I am learning to lean into the knowing moments, even when they lead us straight into the fires of the unknown. When I wrote “take risks on faith” in the back of my planner two years ago, I didn’t know it would mean leaving a place I had loved, facing rejection, or starting over with two babies at home. 

All I knew was this: I couldn’t stay the same.

Spruceprints is a fire of the unknown, but when I brainstorm for blog posts, I’m filled with peace and ideas. I have so much to offer–we all do.

I’m more than a paycheck. I’m a mom, wife to a first responder, daughter, sister, friend, teacher. I’m Spruceprints. I’m Kathleen. And that’s more than enough.

May you listen to your knowing and take a risk in faith today, even when it appears to whisper at the worst possible time. 

It’s leading you somewhere you can’t yet imagine. 

(For anyone curious, this is the planner I’ve used every year for the past five years → Emily Ley Simplified Planner. Link below!)

If this season has you questioning everything, you’re not alone.

Here are a few of the exact things that helped me start fresh:

• My favorite simple planner and THE best vibrant highlighters for color-coding
• The drawer system that saved my mornings
• My weekend reset routine

Some posts on Spruceprints contain affiliate links. This means I may earn a small commission at no extra cost to you if you make a purchase through these links. I only recommend products I personally use and love.

Read on for some of the systems that have helped me manage:

• Weekend Reset Routine for Busy Moms (Simple Drawer System)
• Teacher Mom’s Summer Survival Guide: Pool & Beach Systems That Actually Work