When Hurricane Harvey swept Houston’s Bay Area, I didn’t lose everything, but the storm unsettled me. Returning to class two weeks later, I faced students carrying grief far heavier than mine. Had I suffered a major loss like so many others, maybe the words would come easier. Monday couldn’t just be about economics—it had to be about steady ground and hope.
Tomorrow begins my 24th year of teaching, yet I still remember the first hour of my first day—hands shaking, voice thin, wondering what I was doing there. Since then, the classroom has been both a crucible and a gift: seasons of exhaustion, unexpected laughter, heartbreak, and joy. I’ve taught lessons in economics and literature, but life always had lessons waiting for me too. Students grow, but so do teachers—shaped by storms, successes, and the steady rhythm of showing up. This journey has never been perfect, but it has always been worth it.
The last day of school is loud with relief—teachers and students alike ready to bolt for the door. But for me, that walk to the car is never simple. Each year, I feel the pull of goodbye, knowing many students I’ve poured into will disappear from my life. What do you say in a yearbook line when what you really want is to hand them a compass? Over time, I’ve realized the best lesson isn’t clever advice—it’s reminding them that joy, courage, and kindness outlast possessions. That’s the message I’d stamp in every heart, if I could.