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.

Hi, sweet people 🤍 I’ve added a new course called Lessons Along the Way—because some of the most important learning happens outside the classroom, usually while we’re living, parenting, leading, messing up, and figuring things out as we go. The first post, The Cost of Being Right, is live, and I wanted to share it here, too. A loving but clear reminder: this is a safe, inclusive space. We don’t do shaming, bullying, or drive-by cruelty here. Growth requires curiosity, not perfection. And real learning asks us to loosen our grip on the idea that we’re “supposed to” already know everything (spoiler: none of us do). The more we learn, the more we realize how much we don’t know—and honestly, that’s part of the fun. The 2016 election shifted the trajectory of my mom’s life. My family was shocked and saddened by the results, though different members of my tribe chose to cope in different ways. Some of us took it as a difficult learning experience and allowed it to highlight our own ignorance. “Everyone we knew voted for…” became an admission to the fact that our circles were filled with mainly like-minded individuals who rarely challenged our beliefs or made us feel uncomfortable. Our false sense of safety during the Obama presidency was shattered, and we realized that everything women and civil rights groups had fought for over centuries was once again up for debate. Some of us chose to gain fresh perspectives, try to understand “why”, and build connections over resentment. My mom chose a different path. She would yell at the news every day and allow herself to get sucked into the endless loop of anger and alcohol. Her feelings were understandable, even justified, though extremely misplaced. It eventually led to other issues and, ultimately, her death. I don’t talk about my mom often, but the parallels between the end of her life and what we are currently witnessing collectively are too similar not to address. My mom was a bright, beautiful, and hardworking woman with poor emotional regulation. Before that election, she lived a full life—imperfect, generous, and deeply human—marked more by laughter than rage. In the years that followed, however, she allowed herself to get so far down the road of playing the victim and shifting blame that to reverse course would’ve meant admitting, even to herself, that her entire identity and narrative had become protective mechanisms rather than a true reflection of reality. She had to be right. So right, in fact, that she would rather be gone than admit she caused harm.

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Learning doesn’t stop once you have a diploma in hand or a framed degree on the wall. It shows up every day in how we teach, parent, and respond to life’s mishaps. While much of my work focuses on supporting educators' professional growth, learning itself has always been deeply personal. I’ve never really taken a break from the classroom- there’s just always more to learn. From preschool in 1994, to whenever you’re reading this now, I have found continual lessons and so much joy in any learning environment, which will always include our first classroom- our home. And, while I haven’t been around forever, I have noticed both subtle shifts and major modifications within these environments. Most notably, there has been a clear progression from the teacher as the single expert, authority, “do what I say or else” figure to the teacher as a true leader, thought partner, and guide. Instead of teachers being “Knowledge Gatekeepers” and deciding what to share and when to share it, they are now shifting to “Wisdom Warriors,” who help guide students towards sharing multiple perspectives, developing critical thinking skills, and providing support and structure along the way. The same shift is happening in parenting. For many of us, we are no longer saying, “Welp, that’s how I grew up, and I turned out fine.” Instead, we’re reflecting, “My parents did their best, and it wasn’t perfect. How can I do better for my babies?” Now, the tricky thing about that is: how do we teach in a way we never experienced as learners? How do we parent in a way that we never experienced as a child? How do we unlearn things that no longer serve us, both professionally and personally, and relearn in real time while raising/teaching/inspiring the next generation? The answer is simple, though perhaps uncomfortable. You…do it. Imperfectly. Honestly. Whole-heartedly. Children are intuitive sponges. They feel your energy. They know your message. They can discern the authenticity of whatever you’re trying to say before you even say it. So, when we’re learning and unlearning, the most powerful teaching we can give our children is to do it out loud. Simply model what it looks like to be unsure, vulnerable, and even completely clueless. We’re only human, after all.

Not a complete reset- just an opportunity to reflect and reframe. If August is one long Sunday, then January is the longest Monday of all time. After the fun, family, and food of the holidays, January arrives begrudgingly, lazily knocking on our doors. I used to really struggle with it. Where I live, in Utah, the first month of the year is often marked by frigid temperatures and poor air quality due to an inversion in the Salt Lake Valley. As a teacher, I knew it meant a full 31 days of it being dark when I left for work, dark when I returned home, and a high probability of at least one indoor recess due to weather or gross air. Not ideal. To top it off, society has added its own silly expectations of the month- New Year’s. We hype ourselves up for this “New Year, New Me” mindset and create goals for ourselves that will most likely fade by the second Friday of the month, called “Quitters Day.” In our self-imposed rush from Christmas celebrations to action planning for the year ahead, we skip the pause our nervous system is actually craving. We miss perhaps the most important piece of all: reflection. We don’t need to fully reset in January. We can simply reframe. Instead of setting goals in the dead of winter, reflect on the year we just exited. Thank her, and sit with her just a bit longer. Show gratitude for the good of the year, and grace for the lessons and tough moments. In December, we talked about the sparkle and the shadow of the season. January gives us permission to embrace the shadow- whether it’s with ourselves, our relationships, or our work. With the holidays behind us, our wallets empty, and perhaps too many ingested libations, our shadow is begging for some quality time this month. Shadow work doesn’t have to be scary. In fact, we all have our shadows– they are just as much a part of us as our light. More importantly, your shadow doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you. She often sounds like exhaustion, resentment, or the quiet thought of “I can’t keep doing this.” Consider the holidays’ final gift as an opportunity to reflect on where you are, where you’ve been, and where you’re headed next.