April is my favorite month of the year. Between birthdays and spring break and the excitement of what’s to come, this month has always had a very special place in my heart. Time seems to speed up and slow down all at once. Recesses somehow get longer, yet the days get shorter. You realize, a little too late, that time is a thief. The students you met at the beginning of the year no longer exist. Instead of being small, innocent kiddos, they’ve transformed into the scholars you’ve molded all year long. The structures you’ve worked so hard to put in place and reinforce are smooth and seamless. Your students “need” you less and less. It’s delightfully heartbreaking. And while all of this quiet transformation is happening, April also brings a lot of “talk”. Contract negotiations are well underway, and teachers decide whether they’re staying put, switching grade levels, or saying farewell. Rumors can (and will) spread as long as people continue to add kindling. In my early years as an educator, I was easily swept into the nonsense of trying to “be in the know” to feel even a semblance of control over what lay ahead. That illusion was always quickly shattered because change is inevitable, and plans made in April are often laughed at in August. All of the uncertainty and “talk” doesn’t just stay in the teacher’s lounge. Quick conversations before class turn into a game of telephone, and suddenly, information shared in confidence morphs into something that never existed in the first place. It can be a very dysregulating time for the grown-ups, which inevitably seeps into our students’ nervous systems, too. I think it’s important to (re)name that our energy is palpable and shared. When we are grounded and calm in our bodies, even if it’s chaotic around us, our students can tell. They then feel safe enough to settle, which leads to a much more enjoyable learning environment. The opposite is also true- chaotic teacher energy equals triple chaotic student energy. There have been many moments when I’ve had to pause and reflect on the energy I was bringing to my students. Often, it wasn’t even mine—it was the residue of a frustrated colleague. Once I recognized that, I could pause, reframe, and re-engage as my authentic, calm, and sometimes silly self.

So, permission to be weird. (Permission granted!) The collective is going through a pretty massive awakening. It’s not the end of the world, but rather the end of a world. We can no longer afford to be neutral while staring injustice in its horrifying, pimply, twisted face. Because nothing is ever neutral- silence is complicity. Silence gives hatred, inequity, and fear permission to continue. I often find myself frustrated with people who I consider “good” who also remain willfully ignorant, silent, and complicit in allowing broken systems to thrive (thank you, neurodivergence). While rage-running at the gym, I ripped open a memory box from one of the many psychology courses I took in college. After calling my dad, relearning a few terms, and screaming into the void, I transmuted my running rage into (mostly) coherent thoughts, which have helped me to understand why we are where we are and to (hopefully) provide insights and hope to others. Kohlberg’s theory of moral development outlines how people can progress through different levels and stages of morality. He argues that people move through each level as they get older, which I wholeheartedly disagree with, but more on that later. Growth isn’t guaranteed- it’s a choice. And a lot of people opt out. Essentially, the three levels look like this: Pre-Conventional Moral reasoning is simple and self-centered. I either avoid punishment or do something because I get something in return. For example, Mom gets mad when I hit my sibling, so I will not hit my sibling to avoid getting into trouble (not because I know that hitting hurts others). Or, I know that when I help my teacher, I get a sticker on my sticker chart. So I will help my teacher because I want to fill up my sticker chart and earn a prize (not because I value contributing). This stage is said to last from ages 3 to 9 years old (or forever, if you're a politician in Utah). Conventional Moral reasoning is guided by law and order, and by what society expects of me. I follow the rules because they're there for a reason, even if I’m not sure what that reason is. Known as the “good girl/boy” stage, I know my behavior is judged by others, and I want approval to fit in. I am a contributing member of society, and I am not going to rock the boat. Most adults land here and stay. Why? Because it’s comfortable. And humans will choose comfort over growth almost every time.

Madness? Sure. Magical? That’s up to you. The energy of March is always exciting and chaotic. The spring equinox occurs midway through the month, marking the transition from the stillness of winter to the blossoming of spring. The weather is still unpredictable; I’ve experienced snow days and shorts weather in the exact same calendar year. Students and teachers often follow suit, with behaviors emerging from hibernation just like those of our fellow woodland creatures. Personally, March has brought me its own craziness, with a middle school suspension and a near-firing after I got a bit too brave with a board member. Whoops. All that said, March Madness is appropriate alliteration and should not be tied to just college basketball. However, Magical March is just as real- if we choose to see it. Every March, I would read "Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are" by Dr. Seuss. It was a perfect blend of celebrating Dr. Seuss’s birthday and St. Patrick’s Day. If you’re unfamiliar, the book goes through a list of people who live very unfortunate lives. Characters include Mr. Potter, the T-crosse, I-dotter, who has to cross t’s and dot i’s as his main source of work, and the Bee-Watcher-Watcher who watched the Bee-Watcher. Each character and storyline is sillier than the one before, and the kids giggle the entire time. Their favorite line was always: “Be grateful you’re not in the forest of France Where the average young person just hasn’t a chance To escape from the perilous pant-eating plants But your pants are safe, you’re a fortunate guy You ought to be shouting how lucky am I” Something about third graders and making sure their pants were safe delighted and intrigued them– needless to say, we read the book several times. And, in true Kell fashion, I would bring it back to gratitude- though perhaps sneakily rebranded. We would write our own version of the story to explain how we knew how lucky we were. Not only were my students grateful that their pants were safe, but they also began to see their lives as lucky rather than ordinary.

New article in "Lessons Along the Way." Cognitive dissonance is a common term in education, though its message permeates the world we live in each and every day. A term coined by psychologist Leon Festinger in 1957, cognitive dissonance is the state of holding two (or more) conflicting beliefs, values, or ideas in our minds at the same time. Our brains really don’t like or appreciate the discomfort that opposing beliefs bring, so they try to rectify the discomfort through rationalization, justification, or changing said beliefs. We are human, after all. Cognitive dissonance isn’t just a psychological term- it’s a daily invitation to grow and learn in real time. I’m sure we can all remember a moment from childhood or otherwise where cognitive dissonance peeked its awkward, uncomfortable head out. Perhaps it was realizing that Santa’s wrapping paper was the same as the kind mom used, or learning that Pluto was a planet, then wasn’t, then was again (I’m still not sure about this one). Later in life, it could be realizing that your parents were simply grown-ups who made a lot of mistakes that maybe you wouldn’t have made. Or trying to hold onto the faith you were raised in, while the wider world introduces new ideas that gently question what you once understood as truth. In any case, it takes willingness and bravery to admit that something you once believed to be true may not be, and to remain open to something new. My grandma and I were chatting the other day about the state of the world (yikes), and she made a comment about how it’s harder for older people to change their minds. She talked about how, once someone retires, they lose regular exposure to diverse perspectives and to people they may not have naturally chosen to include in their circle. Over time, perspectives can narrow. In many workplaces, even casual interactions require a level of openness—or at least polite neutrality—that keeps us exposed to different viewpoints. Retirees also tend to surround themselves with people close in age who have likely had similar life experiences. Then, they have a lot of extra time on their hands, and the news is on 24/7. All that to say…our “cognitive dissonance” muscle can weaken over time, which can make conflicting beliefs feel more threatening. The capacity to grow never truly goes away; it just requires a bit more intention.

Most years in Utah, there are a few days in February that offer a sense of respite and relief after a cold, dark winter. Spring peeks its head out, the weather warms slightly, and kids ditch their winter coats on the playground as they run around playing tag. It’s an exciting, hopeful few days- and even tempts some of us (me) to pull out our summer clothes to make sure they still fit. Then, a major winter storm comes in, full force, and buries our cars and recess equipment again. Somehow, shoveling after that storm stings a bit more than any other that season. We call it the February Fakeout. When hope is in short supply, and we can quite literally see the next season right in front of us, regression feels chaotic and out of our control. The same is true for any lesson, really. I often remind myself that growth is never linear. Instead, it’s a spiral. The first few lessons often land closely together and feel really intense- as they should. New learning requires extended effort, grit, and support. We’re prepared for these moments, as we’ve often intentionally chosen to engage with them. Then more time passes between net-new learning, yet we still revisit those lessons we thought we had already aced. Those moments tend to feel sharper and more uncertain, just like that February snowstorm. So, what does this have to do with the classroom (or home)? Well, how we approach these setbacks has a greater impact on our students and our children than we might realize. We have the power to model our surprise, our disappointment, and the grace we give ourselves when revisiting lessons we thought we had already learned. It shows that the most transformative moments aren’t polished or performative- they’re messy and distinctly human. I’ve had a few humbling moments in the last few months, when I’ve had an unexpected review of practices that still need some fine-tuning. These occasions felt somehow tougher- I should be better prepared for this…I should have responded like that…It’s easy to get trapped within our own expectations, but deep down, I know that approach is never helpful.