These keys are too unfamiliar to me that it nearly breaks my heart. There has been such an incredible separation between the words that once easily flowed through in writing. It’s intimidating to me. My mind plays tricks on me by convincing me that these keys will pierce me if I write of issues of the heart. I’m almost afraid to begin again, not knowing what may come out that’s been in hiding for the past months.
Let me clarify.
In December, I found out that I was accepted to Denver Seminary for their Clinical Counseling program. Exciting, right? My response—tears. I was scared. I knew this is what I wanted, but I saw the loss of everything instead of the gain of the opportunity. As I prepared myself for not only quitting my job but also packing up and moving even further from my family, I found another opportunity at a school in Omaha that offered the same program. To me, this option was a bit of a relief. However, I was so torn. Torn between the adventure, newness, and beauty Colorado would offer. I would be right next door to one of my closest friends and I would be able to have new beginnings. At the same time, the opposing side was the distance from family, from familiarity, and from the community I had invested in so deeply here. On a technical level, Denver also wouldn’t accept the 15 credits I had already completed and the program was more expensive. The school in Omaha (Grace) was a door that I would soon knock on and prepare myself for it to either swing open or remain locked shut. I set up a meeting with Grace and approached it in a very pessimistic way. With my questions and demands written down, I dared them to prove they were a school that would have the things that I wanted and hoped to pursue my dreams. Before I could even ask a question, every single one was answered. They waived the fees, the GRE, accepted all my credits, and would allow me to go out of state (and out of the country) for my internships if desired. There was an incredible peace that came with this conversation. I toured the quaint campus and allowed myself to set in to the reality of the next year. There was a greater peace with this than the news of Denver. I assumed my worries, anxiety, and sadness were now dismissed and my answer was obvious. And although most of those things were true, Monday morning brought about the true issue I needed (and am still needing) to work through.
When the weekend was done and I had rejoiced in this open door and settled with the reality of going to Grace in the fall, I drove and sang all the way to work. I hadn’t done this in a month because of my reeling mind. It wasn’t until I unlocked the door in the hallway to get down to my room and looked to see my door with “Miss Mahr” posted on it…did I realize that my heart was sad for more than just leaving Omaha. My heart was weighted down by the loss of being a teacher. In that moment of seeing my name posted and surrounded by the middle school decorations for the season and the poorly written notes stuck in cockeyed fashion, I felt the loss of what I had let become my identity for the last 3 years…6 in reality when looking back on college as well. My answer to “So what do you do?” is about to drastically change. I have spent years of my life having conversations about my profession as a teacher. I have built a community in that school. I feel known…by others and myself... in this role in a very true and deep way. If I take “teacher” out of who I am, do I change? Middle-schoolers have become my way of life…teaching my oxygen for 4 years. I froze in my chair as I looked at my walls scattered with student work and poems and my “The Best Teachers have the Warmest Hearts” Scensy that was placed on my desk. Where will those parts of me go? Will people still be nervous to write to me because I’m an English teacher? Will conversation still come as easy when I don’t have the crutch of teaching middle school? How will I stand to simply say “I’m a student” instead “I’m a teacher.” I feel almost selfish in this. My purpose of serving and helping others is being removed from my life. I am consistently at the demand of 97 students each day, and I’m about to purely focus on my studies. For me. I struggle to not feel selfish in this decision. I understand that the purpose in this is far greater than just becoming a student. I’m doing this to gain the education and knowledge to further help those in need. However, the process of getting there scares me. This idea of change is what has paralyzed my hands more than anything. I can complain of being busy, my fingers freezing in the sub-zero temperatures, or of the unspeakable amounts of grading…but truly I know the lack of writing comes from the fear of my up and coming identity crisis.
So yesterday, I decided to take charge on that fear. To face it, one step at a time. As my day began, I was sick of carrying around this decision as a weight instead of rejoicing in the opportunity. My first step to release that weight was to tell my school that I would not be returning in the fall. At our in-service day yesterday, I decided in the morning that I would tell my principal and assistant principal over my lunch hour. I had spent the previous weeks playing the conversations out in my head, so I knew what I wanted to say and exactly how I would say it. However, for those who know me…what I plan and what actually happens never truly mirror each other. With sweaty and shaky hands, I knocked on my principal’s door and was welcomed in. Oldies music played in the background. Good song, I thought to myself. Seemed appropriate that I would have an audible soundtrack for such occasion. I politely and gracefully took my seat across the desk from my principal. I’m sure from bird’s eye view I looked like a scared student getting in trouble in the principal’s office. I opened my mouth to begin my beautifully planned out speech…except what came out was nothing that I had planned. I basically shouted “I’m not coming back next year.” And then instinctively wanted to catch the words and shove them back into my mouth and start all over. But it was too late. My principal’s eyes had already widened, his hands stripped his glasses from his face, and his jaw was left to drag on the floor. Ok. So maybe it wasn’t that bad, but to me it was the most untactful way of approaching such a delicate subject. Especially coming from an English teacher who should be more eloquent with her words. I went on to explain my process of reaching this decision. To my surprise, he didn’t ask me to just quit right then…nor did he have a look of relief on his face as if I was doing him a favor. His words were the encouragement and support that I needed as he affirmed me in the work I had done and the faith he had in the way in which I was heading. Those first steps led to a conversation with my assistant principal and on down the line. I feel as though I gave my middle school a minor heart attack because of the shock they all had, yet each conversation ended with support and encouragement from a community that had very much become my family and embedded themselves in my heart. I realized even more with each conversation that the last three years have given me confidence, challenges, reassurance, stability, and a burdened heart in what I am about to pursue. And for that, I am so very thankful.
As I sit in this transition…this identity crisis…I’m going to try and choose to be present. To find my way around this phase of discomfort and transition in order to be fully open to the growth that can happen in such moments.
