Category Archives: Personal

From Restlessness to Rekindling

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Extinguished tealight candle

Photo from Pixabay.com

Note: I realize that the blog title does not align well with my current career. Considering that it has been a few years since I published anything on this, I’m letting it ride for now.

They were right. I can’t imagine that any other young teacher and coach heard, “If you keep pushing like that, you’re going to burn out,” more than I did during the first seven years or so of my career. With the sweet intentions of the characters in “The Christmas Story” who warned Ralphie that he’d shoot his eye out, people lovingly let me know that the all-day Saturday sessions with elementary girls during the basketball season, plus activities like camps and scouting could lead me to want nothing more than to be done coaching. I didn’t believe them because, well, I was about 30 years old then.

Looking back now, I realize that the burnout wasn’t as much about the single candle, but rather all of the ways that I didn’t have any flame left for the rest of my life. In particular, the 2007-08 girls’ basketball season competed with my commitment to our family, and it was gut-wrenching. I distinctly remember wondering how it was that I could be in a gym with 300 people, many of whom I considered friends, and feel so alone. With our oldest son being in first grade and our youngest peeking around the corner of turning three, my husband reserved his presence at games for Friday nights, listened when our games were on the radio, and still rode every rise and fall of that season’s roller coaster, with more interpersonal dynamics threatening to rip the fabric of our team than normal. Our family knew that I was going to recommit to them and invest more fully as a teacher when that final horn expired our season. I told the girls in the locker room that night and can remember the two-hour bus ride home featured some hardcore reflection and communication, mostly by way of text messages.

Sure enough, I reinvented myself as a parent and educator beginning in March of 2008. I learned about and implemented primary sources in history, blogged, mentored, collaborated with people inside and outside of my school district, and discovered abundant leadership opportunities. Through all of this, I became a better teacher – and then, the restlessness struck in a different way. My husband and I migrated to another area school district in 2015, which eased transportation for our family as our sons became more entrenched with their activities. That fall marked the beginning of my doctoral coursework and, eventually, the shift into being a teacher educator.

Just as they warned me about burning out, they would ask me if I would coach again. My most frequent answer to that question was a laugh, and some kind of comment like, “No, I’m done raising girls and need to be more involved in raising these guys now,” gesturing to Grant and Carson. The utter satisfaction I felt sitting in the recliner on summer and winter nights, formerly filled with league and regular season games, was another feeling I referenced in dismissing a return. In the midst of interacting with female athletes in my teacher education courses, I began fielding this question differently. Rather than swiftly denying a potential return to the ranks with a stodgy response, I would offer the hum of hesitation. Hearing the stories of their experiences, seeing how they connected with my recollections, and recognizing that society needed more female coaches stirred me to question not who I was, but maybe who else I was now. Additionally, I wondered how parenting life, three more years of school as a student, writing a dissertation, and three years as a teacher educator had molded who I was, particularly how I perceived and communicated with others.

About 80 days into this “Coaching Career 2.0,” I type with a giant smirk on my face because this is even better than I could have hoped. Being an assistant coach is a blast, and I appreciate that the head coaches with whom I have worked are wearing out their soles, often behind the scenes, while hoping that my presence can, in some way, help fortify their coaching souls. It can be taxing because decision fatigue is real, even if you are one of the brilliant ones who generally decides in a manner that others applaud.

In addition to supporting the other coaches, thinking about ways that my actions must offer representation for these young women, and being mindful of how much the families and kids have entrusted me to be part of their lives through these days on the softball diamond and the basketball court, I sense that I don’t need to be warned about getting burned out. My past perceptions of this field did not account for any of these factors. For as much as I have changed, I have no doubt that I am going to get burned out again, so I’m not going to fight that; instead, I am embracing it. However long this occurs, I am more focused on lighting other candles this time.

Around the same time that I pondered this return, my personal and professional friend from the Minnesota Historical Society reached out to see if I would be willing to be interviewed for a Title IX project she was doing, seeking perspectives from women about the impact of sports on their lives. We had that conversation during a morning in the early days of the softball season. In a move unlike something that younger me would have done, I shared the experience in our post-practice huddle that afternoon. I wanted them to realize that the interview was a thing because these experiences were not a guarantee for those who grew up in the past.

The candle flickers because I am invested in these young women – every fist bump, every attempt to refine their skills, and every time we razz each other. This crew has invited that from our first days together, and I am grateful that so many of them are in both softball and basketball, so the settings vary and nuances abound. During my first years of coaching, I didn’t realize how much that flame is burning during all of the mundane things that happen in-between the memories of funny dugout conversations and heart-to-heart conversations in which we confront those “I’m not good enough” voices that they are hearing. How fortunate I am to be in this position with responsive athletes and a supportive family who endure all of the processing that I do when I am with them.

My understanding of being authentic and compassionate is deeper than it was during my initial stint of coaching. When I ask the girls, “What do you need?” as they are assembling for a competition, they know that everything is on the table. When they ask me, “What should I have done differently?” after a play, I offer my best take – and I don’t think “1996 Me” would even recognize the voice that speaks in 2022. Supplying oxygen for the flame and maintaining the wick is a deep sense of purpose, knowing that navigating adversity helps a person learn about themselves.

Writing this during the closing week of our summer adventures allows me a chance to take inventory of contributions I have made knowing that this new beginning “worked,” and that the future offers opportunities to support these fabulous young women as they progress as athletes and, more importantly, as people. I am emboldened to know that the pilot light is glowing again and that passing along the flame is the only action to take.

The Unknown

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Image from https://pixabay.com/en/

About two months ago, my husband and I accepted teaching job offers at a neighboring high school, 17 miles of interstate from the one we had both called home for almost twenty years.  In doing this, we will join our sons’ school district and one we have connected with through other community actions. Education does not, by tenure policies or nature, encourage moves like this; however, my husband and I have both felt a resurgence in the processes that accompany starting anew.

Admittedly, numerous conversations and events of this week have my heart feeling a little heavy about the students we are leaving. On the last day of school, I had a few “choked up” moments and tried to exit in a way that honored how my students had grown because, even if we had stayed in the school district, they would not be “mine” in the same way anyway.

We had a quality meal and conversation with one family last Sunday and, since then, a series of events have reminded me of how much I truly enjoyed what I did and for whom I did it over the past 17 years. I won’t go so far as to say that I am regretting the move now, and I am probably too stubborn and determined to admit such a thing down the road either; however, it triggers thoughts of what is “known” versus that which is “unknown,” and how we face such contrasts.

I know a handful of the students I will teach next year. Likewise, I know and have been meeting a number of my colleagues. What brings both trepidation and exhilaration is the unknown. What characteristics are within the people I think I know that are still invisible to me? What levels of thinking can still be unveiled? What skills will I help advance? What discoveries will I make with the support of these folks? What will the relatively barren classroom feel like when I actually start calling it “my room”?

Embarking on this has parallels with summer travels. In my experiences, it is rarely an event on the pre-planned itinerary that becomes the signature moment of a vacation. The stories we tell years after a trip typically stem from something remarkable that was not anticipated. When we allow ourselves to accept that our actual experiences and relationships trump our original vision, the unknown becomes more magical than we could have designed it to be.

While I do not know what the future holds, I know that many gifts await me. In addition, I have a responsibility to let myself embrace all of the mysteries, from where I will eat lunch to which students need me to invest in them.

 

Beyond the Boundary Lines

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This is one of those posts that I may regret sharing online. However, I’m pretty certain that the worldwide web is not as daunting of an audience as a school assembly would be for this. If you’re hoping for a handy history lesson, document wizardry, or implementation with a nifty tech tool, just close the window and have a pleasant day…no harm done.

As a wife, mom, and teacher, my degree of success is constantly defined by what I perceive the recipients of my daily tasks experiencing. Their happiness and ability to conquer what they face measures my ability to support and prepare them (and, for my husband and our sons, that includes making sure their clothes are clean). In these roles, I find that it’s easy to get caught up in what is probably a variation of narcissism, but is unselfish at its roots.

For a variety of reasons, including the anticipation of Christmas, I’ve been contemplative lately. It has been self-analytic, not for the gains of my husband, sons, or students; however, it strikes me that it is the cornerstone in my ability to serve them.

In college, I was a resident adviser, competed in sports, and spent a couple months student-teaching. Each of these experiences was pivotal in shaping me. Occasionally, I also attended a Bible study with one of my teammates in which a lady guided us through the book of Psalms. One night she had selected Psalm 16 and told me that it had me in mind. I like words, and if she had told me that a song on the radio made her think of me, I would have thought that was cool. The core verse she referenced was Psalm 16: 6 “The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places…” Oh, that. Yeah, even though she didn’t live in the athletic world, it was pretty obvious that I was overmatched where I was trying to compete. When you are almost 20 years old and have a “runt-of-the-litter” body, intercollegiate athletics display your shortcomings. At the time, I believed that those were the boundary lines, or limitations, that God had given me.

Let’s hit fast-forward to two years ago. The 18 years in-between had not been rife with misery nor perfect, but I found that my limitations had hit a new level. In November, I began feeling stiffness in my fingers and attributed it to keyboard and cell phone use knowing that my job and personal life were incorporating those tools and actions around the clock. Eventually, deep throbbing at the bases of my fingers and in the ball of my foot told me that there was something much more fundamental breaking down. It hurt to catch a ball. It hurt to flex my hands. On December 26, 2012, I had an appointment and found out shortly thereafter that I was a “rheumatological nightmare” with both lupus and rheumatoid arthritis.

My “boundary lines” as I saw them that day looked thick. They scared me right down to my eroding joints. An aggressive drug regimen would begin, and I could continue doing other things as long as I felt okay doing them. I am purposely vague in saying “things” because I had just resumed lifting weights around this time and I was well-aware that part of my classroom routine (and effectiveness) demands being on the move. Losing either of these physical activities would have been devastating.

I could elaborate on so many aspects of this – the vitamin supplements, my sister who is truly my “sister” in this disease (she contracted it at about the same age in her life and is years farther in this journey than I am), the need for a weekly pill container, and the support of those whom I have pulled aside to say, “Okay, I need to tell you something about me.” I could write for many more pages and tell about figuring out ways to counter fatigue, a random hip soreness (on my 39th birthday), not being able to be a blood donor (ever) because of the medication I have to take, or compulsively telling a class of juniors and seniors in Psychology that I’m not as healthy as they might think. Each of those items is just a sideshow.

What washes over me in all of this is that 104 weeks later, my quality of life is actually better than it was prior to my diagnosis. I lift better than I did, I live better than I did, and I love better than I did. At the core of that experience for me is being able to recognize blessings. Expressing gratitude has become more of a habit, and I am aware of how much warmth I experience simply because others provide it.

At one time, I tried competing with women while being physically undersized. I became tougher from that. Ultimately, I understand that grace, medication, working at a job I love (most days), and not cheating on diet, sleep, or exercise, are at the heart of positive progress with this condition; however, feeling physically healthy is only part of this equation. I am surrounded by blessings in the forms of my husband, sons, and students. What amazes me is that it doesn’t stop with this core! Celebrations and fun events dot the schedule of the upcoming days. In the presence of the family members and friends who will be part of these, I will experience even more joy. Through these people, I am deeply aware of how the rest of the “boundary lines” situation unfurls. Thankfully, there is more to the story. As Psalm 16:11 states, “You make known to me the path of life; you will fill me with joy in your presence.” I am strong for those who need me most when the faith and wisdom associated with these experiences undergird my actions.