Holding My Ground

September 6, 2025

When I first started teaching middle school, I was armed with only one year of teaching experience in the U.S. public school system—and a whole lot of hope. I had just moved from the Midwest to the South, and the cultural shift was almost as jarring as the jump from high school to middle school.

My first 7th graders looked and acted older than I expected—more like the high schoolers I had taught in Minnesota. They tested me constantly. I didn’t look like the other teachers. I didn’t sound like them either. I spoke “proper” standard English, the way I learned it in academia, and the way I had taught in high school. That difference made me stand out, and not in a way that made my job easier. At times, I felt like I was in another country—straining to understand heavy Southern accents the way I once struggled to keep up when immersed in Spanish in Mexico.

And yet, while I was learning a new culture, I was also learning how to be a teacher.

The group I inherited was academically behind, with behavior issues tied tightly to that struggle. My mission was clear: help them improve their EOG test scores. It was not easy. Parents were difficult, some even bold enough to blame me for their child’s behavior. But I kept showing up for those kids. I loved them, encouraged them, held them accountable, and created incentives for them to succeed.

One day, I decided to try something new. As we read a class novel, I walked the aisles and gently placed my hand on each student’s shoulder. Some squirmed, but I believe it left an imprint: I see you. I care about you.

That year, Cesar Millan—the Dog Whisperer—was my unlikely mentor. Watching him taught me that energy matters. Just like with dogs, students sense when you’re weak, when you’re insecure, when you’ve lost your center. Many days I had to reset my own energy before I stepped into that classroom. I had to radiate calm strength, even when I didn’t feel it.

There were days when students tried to break me with a glare, a silent battle of wills. But I stared back, unflinching. You don’t intimidate me. I see you. And I’m not going anywhere.

By the end of the year, those same students made remarkable progress on their tests. I was proud of them, but I was also proud of myself—for surviving, for standing my ground, for becoming the teacher they needed.

The following year’s group of 7th graders? Like night and day. Sweet, funny, and exactly what I had imagined middle schoolers would be like. That’s when I realized each group has its own personality, its own needs, and its own way of shaping you.

People sometimes ask if I’d go back to teaching. My answer is simple: No thank you. But the lessons I learned in those early years—about presence, energy, and meeting people where they are—have never left me.