Loving the Work, Carrying the Weight

When I accepted the position as ELL teacher at Fort Dodge Senior High School, I knew it would be hard.

I worked hard.

I wanted the kind of work that stretches me.  The kind that makes my brain hum and my heart ache in the best way.  The kind that reminds me why I got into education in the first place.

And I got it.

I also got… aye aye aye.

The good kind of chaos.
The exhausting kind of purpose.
The kind of days where I drive home to Webster City with cotton in my brain and fire in my chest.

This job is everything I hoped for.

And everything I underestimated.

The First Weeks: Beautiful Overwhelm

Starting a new job mid-year is like stepping onto a moving train.  Everyone else already knows where the seats are. They know the rhythm.  They know the language of the building.

And then there’s me — fifteen years of experience, multiple endorsements, two master’s degrees, dyslexia certification, reading specialist brain firing on all cylinders — and yet still feeling brand new.

I’ve been building relationships from scratch.
Learning schedules.
Decoding transcripts.
Advocating for credits.
Explaining sheltered instruction.
Fielding emails.
Supporting ELPA testing.
Trying to design systems while simultaneously surviving the day.

I love it.

But there are moments when I close my classroom door and just whisper, “Aye aye aye.”

The Kids: Why I Stay

My students are from everywhere.

Guatemala.
Mexico.
Sudan.
El Salvador.
Myanmar.
Honduras.
And places most Americans couldn’t find on a map.

They walk into my room carrying languages, trauma, brilliance, humor, and responsibility beyond their years.

They are working jobs.
Translating for parents.
Navigating systems not built for them.
Trying to pass English 10A while learning what a metaphor even is.

Some of them are functionally bilingual but academically fragile.
Some of them are just beginning to decode English phonics.
Some of them are navigating dyslexia in Spanish and English simultaneously — and no one talks about how layered that is.

And they show up anyway.

They laugh.
They try.
They write broken sentences that mean everything.

And when one of them understands a grammar pattern — when a silent student suddenly reads aloud with confidence — it is electric.

That is why I love it.

The Systems Are Not Built for Them

Here’s the hard part.

Our credit structures were not designed for multilingual learners.
Our pacing was not designed for interrupted education.
Our graduation timelines were not designed for a 16-year-old who arrived in the U.S. six months ago.

I spend a lot of time explaining that language acquisition is not a deficiency.

It is development.

And development takes time.

I find myself advocating constantly:
For sheltered English credits.
For repeatable courses.
For Spanish literacy screeners.
For realistic expectations.
For patience.

Because behind every “low score” is a kid navigating two languages and a thousand stressors.

And sometimes I feel like I’m trying to retrofit an airplane while it’s already in the air.

Aye aye aye.

The Political Weight in the Room

And then there’s the part we don’t talk about enough.

The air feels heavy.

My students are aware of the headlines.
They see social media.
They hear the rhetoric.
They watch adults debate immigration as if it were an abstract policy issue rather than their lives.

Some of them worry about family members.
Some of them carry quiet fear.
Some of them shut down.
Some of them push harder, determined to succeed no matter what.

I stand in front of them, teaching thesis statements while knowing that the world outside the building feels uncertain to them.

That tension is real.

It’s hard to teach hope in a climate that often feels hostile.
It’s hard to preach opportunity when the narrative around your students is so often negative.
It’s hard to separate policy from personhood when the person sitting in front of you is a child.

I am an educator.
I am also a human being.
And sometimes I leave school feeling like my nervous system has been in fight-or-flight all day.

The Personal Cost

I am exhausted in a way that feels different from past teaching years.

This is cognitive exhaustion.
Emotional exhaustion.
Advocacy exhaustion.

I am still tutoring.
Still mothering.
Still navigating health.
Still managing finances.
Still building “Lammers Scholars.”
Still showing up.

Some days I feel sharp, capable, and on fire.

Other days, I feel like I’m holding up an entire scaffolding system with duct tape and sheer will.

But here’s the thing.

I would choose this hard again.

Why I Love It Anyway

Because this work matters.

Because literacy changes lives.
Because bilingual brains are powerful.
Because a safe classroom can steady a student in ways that ripple for decades.

Because when a student says, “Miss, I understand now,” the noise fades.

Because when a student feels seen, the world shifts a little.

Because when you build systems that honor language instead of punishing it, you are building something bigger than a schedule.

I love this job.

I love the challenge.
I love the growth.
I love the responsibility.
I love the kids.

Even when I’m tired.
Even when I’m frustrated.
Even when the political climate feels overwhelming.

Maybe especially then.

The Truth

This job is stretching me in every direction.

It is forcing me to refine my advocacy.
Deepen my patience.
Clarify my voice.
Strengthen my resolve.

It is hard in the best way.

It is messy.
It is imperfect.
It is beautiful.
It is exhausting.
It is sacred work.

And yes — some days it’s “aye aye aye.”

But it is mine.

And I’m not going anywhere.