Coming Home (to yourself)

When I interviewed for my job as principal at Grisham Middle School in Austin, TX, I shared, as Simon Sinek would call it, my "why."  It was a story about a previous student, let's call him Joe, that led me to answer the call to educational leadership.

Joe was a 5th year senior.  He had transferred to the high school where I was teaching theatre arts.  "No Child Left Behind" was still relatively new and, since his previous school was deemed "academically unacceptable," he was able to transfer to an "academically acceptable" school in the same district.  His girlfriend was pregnant and he wanted to be able to support their family.  Joe was also a gang member.  Upon finding out he was going to be a father, he attempted to disaffiliate from the gang--a nearly impossible task for many.  Joe couldn't graduate unless he fulfilled his one year fine arts requirement for graduation (in addition to a few other requirements).  Theatre and art, not requiring years of previous musical or instrumental training, tend to be assigned to students who just don't fit anywhere else.  Lucky me (and yes, I mean that sarcastically AND genuinely)!

Joe hated theatre arts.  As passionate as I was about staging, emotional recall, and Shakespeare, I had difficulty (a serious understatement) making the content relevant for Joe.  In only my second year as a public school teacher, I regularly took the bait Joe left for me in class.  I don't believe effective classroom management set in for me until year 5, and I had lots of room to grow!  Still, I knew enough that writing an office referral or assigning a detention to a 19 year old gang member, wasn't going to change his behavior or make life easier for me.    

Despite our quibbles, Joe spent the first block of the day, which he had as an "off" period due to his 5th year senior status, in the back of the theatre (my classroom).  He quietly and respectfully worked on homework, listened to music (with headphones of course), and watched me teach my class.  I enjoyed those morning interactions.  Without his class peers watching, Joe was pleasant, funny, even helpful.  One morning, after a particularly challenging day the previous afternoon, I could no longer contain my curiosity.  I asked, "Joe, you don't seem to like theatre very much.  Why do come in here every morning?"

"Awww, miss...your theatre feels like home," and he was being sincere.  

It was a very casual statement that deeply touched my heart and enabled me to see the incredible power I had in the opportunity to create safe and comfortable spaces for all students.  If my classroom could feel like home to Joe, what could I do for a campus in a leadership capacity?  I wanted my classroom, and eventually my school, to feel like coming home.  And if "home" wasn't a safe place for a student, then school could be.  Bottom line-we learn best when we are comfortable, empowered, and connected.  We learn best through meaningful experiences, relationships, exploration and, most importantly in my opinion, fun!

So my work began.  It actually flourished. My theatre programs grew.  Job opportunities increased.  I became a positive behavior intervention specialist and coached other teachers in the schools where I worked.  Eventually, I got my master's, became an assistant principal, developed meaningful relationships with students and families, and stepped into the role of principal.  As principal, my team developed core values and leveraged research about connection, restorative practices, movement, mindfulness and play to dramatically redesign our school systems and environment.  It worked!  We were able to reduce discipline problems by 90% and students, parents and teachers alike reported feeling connected to the school's mission & vision.

I spent the largest portion of my career developing external spaces where the community felt like they were coming home.  Then, my ability to contribute to those external spaces, well anything external really, completely diminished.  I was sick, I was labeled "disabled," I received several rare diagnoses, and I was only 40.  I remember hanging out in the backyard with some friends that worked with my husband a couple months into my long term disability, and I had absolutely nothing to say or talk about.  I thought, "who am I, as a person and as a woman, now that I can't seem to DO anything for others?"  I was lost, and to some extent, it felt like no one seem to notice. I felt suddenly invisible and people politely smiled at me while I sat on the sidelines listening to everyone else talk about their lives.

I had invested so much time and effort into creating a place for others to feel like they were "coming home," that I had failed to create a space for me to come home--a place within myself to "settle" at the end of each day, at the end of each external achievement.  You see, there's coming home and then there's COMING HOME to yourself.

I am not the things I've done.  The more I try to do for other people, the more I try to please them or even help them at times, the more I hyperfocus on achievements outside of my realm of control.  No wonder that, despite my perceived success by others, I always felt like a failure.  No matter what I did or said, no matter what I adjusted to try to appease others or fill their needs, it could never have been enough--it was always dependent on external factors. Not that I regret for one second creating places to belong, learn and have fun, but I was always working from the outside in, and that outside is temporary, even fleeting, no matter how great it may have been at any frozen moment in time.  When all the outside things ended, all I was left with was myself.

Was that such a bad thing?  

It certainly felt that way for a time.  Then I started meeting other people, women in particular, with similar stories.  Chronic illness, relationships that had suddenly ended, depleted identities because they were so busy taking care of others that they didn't have time to take care of themselves, the story played on repeat.  I admired the resilience in every single one of them and could fully respect their innate worth much more easily than I could find it within myself.  What was wrong with me?  A career and lifestyle had ended, but I was still alive.  I had a family that I loved dearly.  But, who was I without the continued pursuit of my "why story?"

I sloppily and reluctantly stumbled upon meditation.  I wasn't good at it, my mind just wandered, and serenity completely eluded me.  It would be a couple of years before I figured out that was the whole point, the messy journey, staring at yourself in a mirror, fighting your way through the jungle of thought to inner peace.  Eventually I even learned I could suspend the judgement of my meditation as a "success" or "failure" altogether.  However, at that time, it simply required me to do something I had never before done in my adult life.  It required me to be present with myself.  Sitting quietly, not in the past and not in the future, being still, noticing my breath, relaxing my body, letting go of trying to control my mind...10 minutes, then 15, 20...more...allowed me to sift through the old thinking patterns that told me I had to "do" more in order to "be" more.  You see, up to that point in my life, I had that concept incorrectly reversed.  It was when I stopped to "be," that I could finally start to "do."

In more than one particular meditation session, Joe came to mind. 

 "Miss, your theatre feels like home."  

And it clicked.  If Joe, the struggling student, teenage father, gang member, knew what home felt like, I could too.  He became, not my why story, but my inspiration and role model.  Joe knew himself.  That's why he was still in school, that's why he was trying to separate himself from gang activity.  I was experiencing loss, but in losing career and past capabilities, I actually regained my Self.  

In time, I knew my worth.  In time, I discovered a vast and never ending well of identity within me, not outside of me.  When people ask who I am or what I do, I say, "I'm light, love and joy and my purpose is to take up space."  They laugh, surprised at the confidence bordering on what they perceive as arrogance.  I am always home.  I bring it with me now wherever I go.  Once people spend a little time with me, they realize I am not arrogant.  I am at peace with being and I invite them to join me.

Thank you, Joe, for coming home to my classroom.  Thank you for teaching me to come home to myself.