Family

This past weekend, my entire family was together for the wedding of my niece. That does not happen very often anymore. As families grow, they also spread out. Kids become adults. Careers take them to different places. Calendars fill up. Someone is always working, traveling, coaching, going to school, raising children, or trying to get somewhere else. So when everyone actually gets into the same place at the same time, it feels significant. This weekend was especially meaningful because I got to see my oldest son. He flew in from Salalah, Oman, to be at the wedding. Needless to say, seeing him was pretty special.

Weddings have a way of bringing everyone back together. They are fun. They are emotional. They are filled with stories, laughter, pictures, hugs, food, music, and the inevitable conversations that begin with something like, “Do you remember when...?” They are also exhausting. As much as I love my extended family, there comes a point where my energy reserves begin flashing red. I think that is part of family too. Dodie Smith captured that tension perfectly in her 1938 play Dear Octopus when she wrote, “The family. That dear octopus from whose tentacles we never quite escape, nor, in our inmost hearts, ever quite wish to.” I love that description. An octopus. Tentacles everywhere. Sometimes pulling you in directions you did not plan to go. Sometimes holding on a little tighter than you would prefer. Sometimes completely draining the energy out of you. And yet, we never really want to escape. There is comfort in knowing there are people connected to us who have known us through different versions of ourselves. They remember when we were younger. They know the stories. They remember our successes and our failures. They have seen us at our best and, unfortunately, sometimes at our worst. Family grounds us.

Driving home after the wedding, I kept thinking about that idea. Maybe schools have their own version of the dear octopus. A school is a collection of people who become connected because they share something important. Students. Teachers. Aides. Custodians. Bus drivers. Office staff. Parents. Administrators. We arrive with different personalities, backgrounds, experiences, strengths, frustrations, and opinions. And then we spend an extraordinary amount of time together. Sometimes those relationships are easy. Sometimes they are not. Sometimes people energize us. Sometimes they drain the reserves. That is what happens when human beings spend enough time together.

But connection is also where the impact happens. Students remember the teacher who knew when something was wrong. They remember the aide who encouraged them. They remember the custodian who always said hello. They remember the bus driver who knew their name. They remember the staff member who helped them when they were scared. They remember the coach who refused to let them quit. They remember the adults who made school feel a little more like a place where they belonged. That does not happen because of a program. It happens because of people.

Families are imperfect. Schools are imperfect too. We frustrate one another. We misunderstand one another. We occasionally need some space from one another. We have good days and bad days. But somewhere underneath all of that is connection. And connection matters. My son traveled halfway around the world to be with our family for a wedding because being there mattered. Nobody had to explain that to him. It was simply Family that pulled.

Maybe that is one of the things I hope to  continue building here at Sequoia Union. A place where adults recognize that the relationships we build are not something separate from our work. They are the foundation of the work. Making an impact does not always require a huge moment. Sometimes it is simply showing up. Being present. Listening. Helping. Laughing together. Occasionally giving a little more of ourselves even when the energy reserves are getting low. That sounds a lot like family.

The dear octopus. We may occasionally complain about the tentacles. But deep down, we are awfully glad they are there.

Until next time...

Be a Good Human

As many of you know, I am usually reading something. Actually, I am usually reading one book and listening to another. I bounce from history to leadership to biographies to fiction and just about anything else that catches my attention. I regularly fall asleep reading and rarely watch TV.  Don’t get me wrong, the TV is on, but I’m not paying any attention to it. It remains an ambient noise for me, unless of course, I’m watching a sporting contest. Then, I’m focused!

Right now, I am about halfway through the Red Rising series by Pierce Brown. Don’t worry, I’m not going to broadcast a spoiler alert. If you have not read it, I will try not to ruin anything for you. The basic premise is that humanity has organized itself into a society built around Colors. Your Color determines where you fit. It defines your work, your status, your opportunities, and, unfortunately, how others are expected to see you.

Gold. Red. Blue. Pink. Gray. Everyone has a place and everyone has a label. Somewhere along the way, people begin confusing the label with the human being underneath it. That idea has stayed with me while reading because it reminds me of something I used to tell my students when I taught high school science.

For the 10 years I taught High School science, I used to finish every class with 'Be A Good Human'.  It was my only rule in class and it was posted on my wall. Be a Good Human. That was it. Students were inundated with rules everywhere else. Do this, do not do that. Sit here. Walk there. Don’t talk. Talk only when told to do so. Raise your hand. It goes on and on. My room had one. Be a good human. Every once in a while, a student would ask what that meant. My response was always the same. “If you have to ask what a good human is, you are probably not being one.” They usually understood.

Being a good human means you do not intentionally hurt someone else. You help when someone needs help. You tell the truth. You take responsibility when you mess up. You treat people with dignity. You understand that somebody sitting next to you may be having a much harder day than you realize. If a friend tells you something in confidence, it remains as such. If a person does something you didn’t like, you talk to them about it. An honest confrontation is always better than a dishonest peace. It really was not complicated. And maybe that is why Red Rising has me thinking about it again.

Does this mean that I always abide by the philosophy? No. I am a flawed human being that strives to do right by people. That is why the book Red Rising resonates with me. The Hero is a flawed human. As for you, none of us have to be a perfect teacher to be a good human. You will have bad days. You will make mistakes. But if your north star is always trying to do right by your students and your colleagues, you are doing the real work of a human being.

The core conflict of Red Rising is a struggle to reclaim humanity from a rigid system of genetic castes. The Society strips away individuality, and their color label is their caste. The hero has the belief that no matter the label or color, they are all human and worthy of dignity.

Applying that to schools, we have labels too. We have English learners. Students with disabilities. Gifted students. Students receiving intervention. Students with behavior plans. Students who are chronically absent. Athletes. Creative artists. High achievers. Struggling learners. Those labels can be useful. They help us identify needs and provide support, but they can never become the student. Behind every acronym, score, subgroup, intervention plan, behavior referral, and attendance percentage is a human being. The student who struggles in reading may also be the funniest kid in the room. The student who receives behavior referrals may be incredibly loyal to a friend. The quiet student may be carrying something nobody at school knows about. The student with the highest test score may desperately need someone to notice something besides the test score.

Data tells us something about students. It never tells us everything. Perhaps that is one of the most important responsibilities we have as educators. We have to see past the color or label. Past whatever category happens to appear next to a student's name and find the human. The same is true with one another. Whether teacher, aide, custodian, administrator, bus driver, administrative assistant, or parent. Those are roles. Those are not the human. 

Thirty years later, I still think my old classroom rule holds up pretty well. In fact, the older I get, the more I think we might be making some things unnecessarily complicated. So this week, I am going back to one rule. Look beyond the labels. Give someone a little grace. Notice the person behind the problem. Help when you can. Apologize when you should. Laugh often. Assume the best a little more frequently. And above everything else…Be a Good Human.

Until next time...

Time Well Spent

What does it mean to "waste" time? As we rush through our busy weeks, we often divide our days into time spent productively and time wasted. But when you look a little closer, all time is simply being spent. The distinction between "wasting" and "investing" time is not always about the activity itself. Much of it depends on our perspective and how we choose to value the experience. Take my recent weekend, for example.

I took a long road trip to Flagstaff, Arizona, to watch my daughter perform with the Buchanan High School Band. Some might look at hours of driving as a waste of a weekend. For me, it was pure joy. I spent those hours watching the landscape change, enjoying the steady rhythm of the highway, and soaking in the anticipation of watching her perform. I was not trying to get somewhere faster. I was not checking something off a list. I was simply present. That did not feel like wasted time. It felt like time well spent. 

On the way back, we stopped at the Grand Canyon. We only stayed for about 30 minutes. We stood near the edge, completely speechless, staring at that massive, majestic hole in the ground. Thirty minutes is almost nothing in the course of a week. It is barely a blip on a calendar. But I will remember those 30 minutes.

That is the strange thing about time. We cannot hoard it. We cannot save it for later. We cannot store up an extra Tuesday and use it when life slows down. It just keeps moving. What we can do is decide what matters while it is passing. And that leads me to a question. Isn't that part of our goal as educators?

We spend a great deal of time talking about instructional minutes, pacing guides, assessments, interventions, standards, and all the things students need to learn. Those things matter. They absolutely matter. But we are also building memories.

Think back on your own formal education. Chances are, you do not remember most of the tests you took. You probably do not remember every assignment, every worksheet, or every struggle along the way. But you remember people. You remember laughter. You remember the teacher who made you feel capable. You remember the field trip. You remember the class that felt like a family. You remember the moment everyone laughed so hard that the lesson stopped for a minute. You remember how school made you feel. That is time well spent too.

Sometimes the moments that look least productive on paper become the moments students carry with them the longest. A conversation before class. A joke that breaks the tension. A few extra minutes spent listening. A celebration. A story. A moment when a student knows an adult genuinely sees them.

When I taught high school science, students would tell me the best day was the day after the midterm, which I called "Off the Subject Day." On that day, they could ask me any question, curriculum related or not. Yes, the conversation could go just about anywhere, but that was part of the fun. My job was to field the questions and provide strategically worded answers. Years later, that is one of the things students still remember.

Those moments are not distractions from our work. They are part of the work. Marcus Aurelius, the Roman emperor and Stoic philosopher, once wrote, "The impediment to action advances action. What stands in the way becomes the way." In simpler terms, the obstacle is the way. Sometimes the unexpected interruption, the detour, or the moment that was not in the lesson plan becomes the very thing a student remembers. I'll let you marinate on that one.

So this week, protect the important minutes. Teach well. Plan well. Use the time wisely. But do not become so focused on filling every minute that you miss the chance to make one memorable. Our students are spending part of their lives with us. Let us make certain some of that time becomes worth remembering.

Until next time...

Embracing the Hectic

This week I wanted to reflect on the first 30-plus days of the school year. As with anything, it takes time to settle into a rhythm. With families, August and September bring not only school, but activities, practices, games, homework, and everything else life decides to throw into the mix. Things get a little hectic.

In my house, it is all crazy. I have one in the college band, one in the high school band, and our youngest in soccer. Many days, my wife and I have to play zone defense to cover everything. Other days, we have to play man-to-man (Those are my sports references).

For those who do not get the reference, when we play zone, we get to the activity that is closest. If we play man-to-man, we split up. I go to one place and she goes to another. The kids get to at least see one of us there.

I have used that reference since they were young. I would sit in one room of the house, she would sit in another, and one of us would holler, “He’s in your zone!” No matter how many were coming, if they were in my zone, I had to be on my game. Playing man-to-man, or simply “man” as my wife and I call it, seems much simpler. I have one job. Stick to the child. Eyes on the target. Do not let them get behind you or they may go for a long score! But I digress.

You may remember that my college son is a drummer. I love that he wanted to attend Fresno State like I did. I love that he remains at home. I cherish the time because when they are gone, they are gone. But did I mention that he is a drummer? He is always practicing another piece for the band. Another “difficult piece,” as he puts it. He plays the tenors. You may know them as the quads. If the name does not ring a bell, they are the rack of connected drums that marching band percussionists wear across their waist.

What does this have to do with the first 30-plus days of school, you may be asking? Fair point. I embrace the craziness. The rumble and repetitive pounding of the drums. The rhythm. The schedules. The rush from one place to the next. I embrace it all.

Someday, I know the noise will be quiet. My days will not be filled with practices, games, performances, rides, forgotten equipment, or trying to figure out who needs to be where and when. I am not looking forward to that. I embrace hectic.

And maybe there is something in that for us at school too. Schools are noisy places. Whistles sound. Students talk. Phones ring. Doors open. Someone needs help. Someone forgot something. A lesson changes. A meeting gets added. A student needs a little more of our time than we planned to give. The day rarely unfolds exactly the way we pictured it when we drove onto campus that morning. It can feel hectic because it is hectic.

But there is also something beautiful buried inside all that noise. The noise means students are here. The questions mean they trust us enough to ask. The interruptions mean somebody needs us. The games, practices, activities, field trips, lessons, projects, and conversations mean something is happening. We are in the middle of it. So maybe the goal is not always to eliminate the hectic. Maybe sometimes the goal is to recognize it for what it is. A school finding its rhythm. Thirty-plus days into this year, we are finding ours.

So embrace the hectic. Listen for the rhythm underneath the noise. And remember that someday, we may look back and wish we could hear those drums one more time.

Until next time...

Everybody Needs A Fan

As many of you know, I love reading. I constantly have a book I am in the middle of reading lying on a counter or table at home. I am also a chain listener to audiobooks. When I finish one, I am off to the next. In both cases, I consume all different genres.

For example, I just finished The Road by Cormac McCarthy. Cool name, Cormac. It was excellent, but heavy and deeply emotional as a parent. The follow-up was the book I want to write about today, Big Fan by Michael Schur and Joe Posnanski. It is a funny and heartwarming look at fandom and why human beings become fans.

When I saw the title Big Fan, I immediately thought of sports. I was only a few pages into the book when I realized it was about much more. It was about all fandom. Chess fans, music fans, collectors, sports fans, and people who become completely fascinated by something simply because it matters to them.

The authors attend a Grateful Dead concert, a Taylor Swift concert, chess championships, dart championships, and explore sports card collecting and collecting in general. The book was a wonderful reminder that the things we become fans of are as varied as we are.

What stayed with me most were three ideas the authors explored. Life can be boring, and fandom gives us entertainment. Life can be chaotic, and fandom gives us order. Life can be lonely, and fandom gives us community.

I loved that. I now know I have plenty of kin in my crazy desire to follow cycling, chess, and Premier League soccer's Manchester City. Go Citizens! There is something wonderful about caring enough about something to experience the emotional highs and lows that come with it.

Then it occurred to me that schools work in much the same way.

A good school does all three of those things. It turns ordinary days into moments worth remembering. It gives structure to what can sometimes feel like chaos. Most importantly, it creates community. For many of our students, school is one of the first places where they discover what it feels like to belong to something larger than themselves.

But there is another side to fandom that may matter even more in our work. Every student needs a fan.

Not a fan only when the grade is high, the assignment is perfect, or the winning point is scored. Students need people who remain in their corner when they struggle, make mistakes, need another chance, or have not yet discovered what they are good at. That is one of the great privileges of working in a school. We get to notice. We get to cheer. We get to celebrate growth that others may never see. Sometimes we even get to believe in a student before that student knows how to believe in themselves.

Maybe that is why fandom matters so much. It reminds us that caring deeply is not silly. It is human. So this week, be a fan. Be a fan of your students, your colleagues, our school, and the good work happening around you. Let people know that you are in their corner.

Every child deserves to look into the stands of their life and see somebody cheering for them. Be the one they see and make an impact.

Until next time...

When You Least Expect It

For this week, I want to talk about a saying I have used my whole life, even though it is rarely heard. "When you least expect it, expect it." I have no idea where it originated, but this past week has caused that phrase to bounce around continuously in my head.

Lately, I have been dealing with some serious issues of a cardiac nature. Then, just when I thought things could not get any more difficult, I caught COVID.

For me, that hit hard. During the initial pandemic, I was part of the very first wave of infections. Hospitals were overflowing, and I was stuck on a gurney in a hallway, literally told "good luck" by the attending physician.

This past Friday night, I started feeling sick again. My chest hurt terribly, but because of my recent health struggles, I assumed it was my heart. The pain was so severe that I could not even lie down. Ironically, I was not sharp enough to make the connection.

You see, I actually wrote an Amazon bestseller about my original battle with COVID. It was called Upright. I chose that title because, back then, the pain was excruciating whenever they tried to flatten my gurney. I kept begging them to let me sit up. The title was also a double entendre and a reflection of my life for my children. Have I been an upright person? Will my kids be proud?

But I digress. The point is, time made me forget.

I had started feeling almost invincible against COVID. Not only did I survive a near-fatal case early on, but I have since received six vaccinations. You read that right. Six. Yet here I am, infected again. Where did I catch it? I have no clue.

What I do know is that my favorite saying has returned to teach me another lesson.

This past month has been incredibly tough, but this too shall pass. What I am learning through all of this is that I am more human now than I have ever been. Time is our most valuable commodity, and it is strictly limited for all of us. Spend it wisely.

Make the phone call. Take the trip. Sit with the people you love. Laugh when you can. Rest when you need to. Do not assume there will always be a better time later.

Life has a way of reminding us that we are never quite as in control as we think we are.

And when you least expect it, expect it.

Until next time...

Where Your Mind Goes

There is an old saying that goes, “What you focus on expands.” It sounds simple, maybe even a little too simple, but there is actually a great deal of science and philosophy sitting underneath that idea.

One place to start is with something commonly referred to as Hebb’s Law: “Neurons that fire together, wire together.” In simple terms, the brain strengthens the connections it uses most often. The thoughts we rehearse, the emotions we revisit, and the patterns we repeat can become easier for the brain to access over time. That should get our attention.

If I spend my days looking for what is wrong, replaying frustrations, anticipating problems, and focusing on disappointments, I am not simply having a bad day. I may also be practicing a way of thinking. The more frequently I use that pathway, the easier it becomes to travel down it again. Eventually, negativity can become less of a response and more of a habit.

The opposite is also true. When we intentionally notice something good, express gratitude, recognize progress, celebrate someone else, or simply stop long enough to appreciate what is working, we are practicing a different pathway. We are teaching our minds where to go.

Psychology gives us another way to understand this through what we might call the cognitive distortion cycle. Our thoughts influence our feelings. Our feelings influence our behavior. Our behavior often reinforces the thoughts that started the cycle.

Think about how quickly that can happen. A colleague walks by without saying hello. One person thinks, “They must be upset with me.” That thought creates anxiety. The anxiety changes the next interaction. Maybe the person becomes distant or defensive. The colleague senses that distance and responds differently. Suddenly, the original assumption feels confirmed. Yet the colleague may simply have been thinking about the lesson they were going to teach upon returning to their classroom. The event did not necessarily create negativity. The interpretation did. This is why attention matters so much.

There is another popular phrase: “Where attention goes, energy flows.” Whether we are talking about neuroscience, psychology, mindfulness, or simply lived experience, the message is remarkably similar. What we continually feed with our attention tends to occupy more space in our lives.

Marcus Aurelius expressed a related idea centuries ago when he wrote about the relationship between our thoughts and the quality of our lives. The Stoics understood something we still wrestle with today. We cannot control every event around us, but we have far more influence over the interpretation we give those events.

Schools give us plenty of material to practice on. There will always be a difficult conversation, an unexpected problem, a challenging student, a frustrated parent, a deadline, a change in plans, or something that simply does not go the way we hoped. The question is not whether negative things will happen. They will. The question is whether we allow those things to become the only things we see.

So here is my challenge this week. Notice what you are noticing. Catch yourself and alter your thoughts to a student who improved, a colleague who helped, a lesson that worked, a parent who said thank you, or a moment that made you laugh. You are not ignoring reality. You are training your attention to see all of it. Sometimes, changing what we focus on is the first step toward changing what we find.  

Until next time... 

#MakeAnImpact 

You Are Part of the Plan

At the beginning of a school year, we spend a tremendous amount of time making sure everyone else is ready. We prepare classrooms, build schedules, organize materials, review plans, welcome families, and make certain our students have what they need. Educators are very good at taking care of other people. Sometimes we are so good at it that we forget one important person in the plan: ourselves.

I have had a personal reminder of that recently. Health has a way of getting your attention when you have been moving too fast, sleeping too little, eating whatever is convenient, or convincing yourself that you will slow down later. I am not sharing that to create worry. I am sharing it because I think there is a lesson in it for all of us. We cannot wait until we are exhausted, sick, or completely empty before we decide that taking care of ourselves matters.

The beginning of the year is actually the perfect time to establish those habits. It is easy to think about self-care in May when everyone is tired. The better strategy is to begin in August. The sleep you protect now, the meals you choose now, the water you drink, and the time you give your mind to shut down are deposits into an account you will draw from later in the year.

Sleep matters. Good nutrition matters. Movement matters. So does downtime. There needs to be a point in the day when the school problems stop following you from room to room and eventually all the way home. We all need moments when we are not solving something, answering something, grading something, planning something, or worrying about what comes next.

None of this means we become less committed to our work. In fact, it is the opposite. Taking care of yourself is one way of protecting your ability to continue doing the work you care about. You cannot continually withdraw energy without eventually making a deposit. We are building toward June, and the habits we establish now will determine how much we have left when the year asks the most from us.

So this week, pay attention to yourself with the same care you give your students. Get the sleep. Eat the meal. Drink the water. Take the walk. Put the phone down for a while. Sit quietly. Laugh with someone. Go home when the work can wait until tomorrow. There will always be another email and another item on the list. There is only one you.

Make an Impact, absolutely. Just remember that you are part of the impact plan too.

Until next time...

The Power of "Not Yet"

There is a small word that can change the direction of a school year: yet. A student says, "I can't do this." Add one word and the sentence becomes, "I can't do this yet." The first statement sounds final. The second leaves the door open. It acknowledges the struggle without turning the struggle into an identity.

That matters because students are constantly deciding what kind of learners they believe themselves to be. They collect evidence from grades, assignments, conversations, and the expressions on the faces of the adults around them. A difficult task can quickly become a label: I am not a reader. I am bad at math. I never understand science. I cannot behave in class.

Our words can either reinforce those labels or interrupt them. One of the most important things we do as educators is help students separate where they are today from where they are capable of going. High expectations are not a refusal to recognize difficulty. They are a refusal to believe that difficulty must have the final word. Students need adults who can say, "This is hard, and I am staying with you while you learn it.'

The phrase "not yet" also belongs to adults. We may not have mastered a new program yet. A classroom routine may not be working yet. A relationship with a student may not feel strong yet. The opening weeks of school can tempt us to judge too quickly. We see a problem and assume we are seeing the finished product. But this is only Week 2.

Improvement is rarely dramatic. It is usually a series of small adjustments made with patience and purpose. We try something, study the result, and try again. We reteach. We listen. We change the approach without lowering the expectation. That is not failure. That is learning in motion.

This week, listen for the sentences that sound final. When a student says, "I can't," help add the word that keeps possibility alive. When you hear the same sentence inside your own head, offer yourself the same grace. Not yet is not an excuse. It is a promise that the story is still being written. Let us keep the door open. Let us Make an Impact.

Until next time...

The First Full Week

The first day of school receives most of the attention. We prepare the classrooms, organize the supplies, review the schedules, welcome families, and make certain everything is ready when students walk through the gates. There is excitement in the air, along with just enough nervous energy to remind us that something important is beginning.

Then comes the first full week. The decorations are still fresh, the pencils are still mostly sharpened, and everyone is beginning to settle into a routine. This is when the work of building a school year really begins.

A successful year is rarely created by one opening-day presentation, one perfectly planned lesson, or one memorable event. It is built through hundreds of small actions repeated over time. It happens when we greet students at the door, learn a name, notice an effort, offer encouragement, reteach an expectation, or check on someone who seems unusually quiet. Those moments may appear small, but small does not mean insignificant.

One of the central ideas behind building a streak is that meaningful progress often comes from actions that are simple enough to repeat. You do not have to change everything today. You simply need to do something worthwhile today and then do it again tomorrow. Schools work the same way. Culture is built one interaction at a time. Trust is built one promise at a time. Achievement is built one lesson at a time. Mentoring is built one conversation at a time. Impact is built one
moment at a time.

The challenge is that these moments do not always provide immediate evidence that they mattered. A student may not thank you for your patience. A colleague may not tell you that your encouragement arrived at exactly the right time. A family may never know how many people
worked behind the scenes to help their child succeed. Make the investment anyway.

This week, look for the small opportunities. Learn one more thing about a student. Recognize improvement before waiting for perfection. Take one extra moment to listen. The first full week is not simply about getting through the schedule. It is our first opportunity to establish the habits that will carry us through the year. Let us make those habits count. Thank you for making it a wonderful opening week.

Until next time...

The Home Stretch

There is something about the end of a school year that feels different from every other finish line. It is not just one event. It is all of them stacked on top of each other. Promotion ceremonies. Awards assemblies. Final meetings. Discipline clean-up. Parent questions. Student emotions. Staff exhaustion. Last-minute reports. Graduation speeches. Classroom clean-outs. The final bell. The final goodbye.

Then, in the middle of all of that, life keeps happening. This past Friday, schools were released for the summer. My son graduated from high school. It should have felt like a clean and beautiful ending. In many ways, it was. But it came after one of the most fatiguing three-week stretches I can remember. By the final week, everyone was running on fumes. Students were done. Staff were tired. Parents were juggling schedules. Administrators were trying to hold all the pieces together. We had reached the home stretch.

The problem with the home stretch is that it can fool us. We can see the finish line, so we convince ourselves we do not need to slow down. We tell ourselves we can push just a little harder. We can make it a few more days. We can skip the rest. Skip the meal. Skip the walk. Skip the water. Skip the pause. After all, we are almost there. But almost there is not the same as there.

At my son’s graduation, my 93-year-old father came to watch his grandson walk across the stage. It was hot. The bleachers were full. The ceremony was underway. Families were cheering, phones were recording, names were being called, and the evening carried all the pride and joy that a graduation should carry. Then my father collapsed in the bleachers from heat stroke. EMTs had to come into the stadium and remove him on a gurney during the ceremony. It was scary. It was emotional. It was one of those moments where everything around you keeps moving, but your own world suddenly stops. All because he had not had enough water. Water.

Something so simple. Something so ordinary. Something completely available. Yet when neglected, it became the difference between being present for a celebration and being carried out of it. Thankfully, my father made a full recovery. My son still graduated. We made it through the ceremony. And by the time the weekend arrived, we all slept well. Deeply. The kind of sleep that comes not only from physical exhaustion, but from emotional release.

But I have not stopped thinking about that moment. Because in many ways, it was a perfect picture of what happens to so many of us in education, leadership, parenting, and life. We push. We serve. We show up. We carry responsibility. We tell ourselves that people are counting on us, so we keep going. We take care of the students. We take care of the staff. We take care of the families. We take care of the program, the event, the schedule, the crisis, the expectation. Then somewhere along the way, we forget to take care of ourselves. And sometimes, the thing we need is as basic as water. 

Self-care is often talked about like it is a luxury. A spa day. A vacation. A quiet morning with coffee. Those things can certainly help, but real self-care is often much more practical. It is drinking water before sitting in the heat. It is eating before the long day begins. It is going to bed instead of sending one more email. It is taking a walk when your mind is overloaded. It is saying no when your body has already said enough. Self-care is not selfish. It is stewardship.

If we do not take care of ourselves, how can we take care of others? If we run ourselves into the ground, how can we be fully present for the people we love? If we ignore our own limits, how can we expect to lead with wisdom, patience, compassion, and clarity? The truth is that fatigue changes us. It shortens our patience. It clouds our thinking. It makes small problems feel large and large problems feel impossible. It causes us to react when we should reflect. It can take the joy out of moments that deserve to be celebrated. 

That is why self-pacing matters. Pacing does not mean we are weak. It means we are wise enough to know that life is not a sprint. Even the home stretch requires strategy. Runners do not finish strong by pretending their bodies do not need oxygen. They finish strong because they understand rhythm, breath, recovery, and timing. Educators need that same wisdom.

The end of the school year will always be busy. Graduation season will always be emotional. Leadership will always carry weight. Family milestones will always come with both joy and stress. We cannot eliminate the demands, but we can become more intentional about how we move through them. We can drink the water. We can take the break. We can ask for help. We can step into the shade. We can recognize that being there for others begins with being well enough to stand beside them.

My father wanted to be there for my son, and he was. That matters. His presence mattered. But the lesson from that night was clear. Love and commitment are powerful, but they do not replace the basic need to care for ourselves.

As we enter summer, I hope we allow ourselves permission to recover. Not because the work was unimportant, but because it was important. Not because we are finished caring, but because we want to keep caring well. Not because we are stepping away from our purpose, but because rest helps us return to it with strength.

The school year ended. My son graduated. My father recovered. We all slept. And somewhere in all of that, there was a reminder worth carrying forward. Take care of yourself. Drink the water. The people you love still need you in the bleachers.

Until next time…