I’m in my newspaper class right now. I’m standing at the black science table with my leadership staff and I’m facing a clean whiteboard with a countdown to spring break.

I have been existing in this class for five years. I have loved this class passionately. I have also felt at odds with this class. I have a punitive work ethic. A do or die mentality. You must only work on newspaper material for this class. Nothing else. Sell your soul to newspaper.

I started teaching this class when my brother was diagnosed. And when he was dying and I knew I was going to miss time, this class was the one I felt the least anxiety over because I knew the students would rise to the challenge and push things forward.

The students never sold their souls to newspaper. And they showed me how to untangle my life from AP Guidelines and the LQTQ format. They reminded me, daily, to breathe.

I thrived. I didn’t. But it wasn’t because of the students. Even though I’m passionate about writing and teaching, I could feel that my edges weren’t congruent to my setting.

And then an opportunity arrived. I could return to teaching dual enrollment. But that meant releasing newspaper which had taught me so much. Had made me grow in so many ways.

And so I opened my hands and stepped away. Or stepped sideways and a little backwards all while still going forwards. Because forward is always the right direction.

Today, I listened as the students finalized spring break plans. Two types of music floated through the room and everyone was laughing and happy. The seniors are writing their senior send offs.

And I face a blank whiteboard.

When I moved to this county, I knew this was likely the last teaching hob of my career. For the last four years, since Peter’s diagnosis, I was planning on retiring. I was proudly broadcasting last October that I only had two more years and then I would graduate too.

But this January, a shift happened. A revitalization that awakened my soul and stretched out the old decayed edges. I wanted to do more. I was ready to do more. I needed to do more. And then the opposite rose.

in 29 school days, the school year will be over. I will pack my room once more for another move. I hope that this will be my last shift before I truly do retire in the future. In 25 school days, the students I have worked with for the last four years will graduate. And a part of me is leaving with them.

I’ve never quite shut a door like this on an aspect of my career. Each time I moved, there was always a I can go back if I don’t like this feeling. But this move has an ending. I am passing on this beloved class to an amazing colleague who will take the class much farther than I could have ever imagined.

The whiteboard is in front of me. Blank except for a countdown. Yearly, I posted countdowns to the end of the year I know the number. But it’s not posted yet.

This year has been beautifully grueling. Painful and awful and yet I have seen myself shift and grow in ways I never expected. I would rather cut away my growth if I could have my brother back. But that is not part of the equation. I can only move forward.

I ache over the change that is unfurling before me. I yearn for that change to happen faster. I yearn for a new board blank except for promises and I will scribble my words across the surface over and over and then erase them and write some more.

My story is not over yet. And I’m too busy facing the future to set down my pen.