I’m a teacher, and I am angry.
Or at least, I was angry. Maybe I still am. I’m not entirely sure in this moment. Yesterday morning, I planned to write a post just to process it—to be honest about how, outside my classroom, I’ve been swearing, venting, and spilling all the ugly things bottled up inside me. I’ve let anger steal my peace, and I thought that maybe grace would meet me in the act of confessing it out loud.
But then I went to see A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood, and now I don’t quite know what to call what I feel.
Instead of anger, there’s sadness. Or healing. Or conviction. Or maybe all of it at once. I watched a man live with such gentleness, patience, and love that it softened the steady undercurrent of rage I’ve been carrying. Something inside me shifted.
I’ve been frustrated and exhausted, worn thin by days that feel endless. I’ve felt walked on, unseen, and undervalued at work, and just when I thought it couldn’t get heavier, it did. The weight kept piling on.
Then I sat in that dark theater, and it felt like Mr. Rogers was looking straight at me—quietly modeling how to love, how to carry burdens, and how to tend to anger without letting it consume you.
As I watched, I began to wonder if I’d lost sight of why I do this work in the first place. I wondered if I’d started measuring my calling by the wrong standards altogether.
I’ve been trying to fix a broken educational system, slamming my head against walls that only seem to grow taller and thicker. I see my students clearly, but the system sees numbers—data points—and a polished image of success, regardless of the truth underneath. Out of my 140-plus students, nearly 75 have been deeply failed by that system, and I’m losing pieces of myself trying to pull them out of the undertow and teach them how to “student.”
But after tonight, I’m asking myself how to return to what matters most: making every single student feel seen, heard, and valued.
I can’t undo twelve years of reinforced habits in one school year. I can’t fix everything. But I can be the one who says, “I like you as you are / Without a doubt or question / Or even a suggestion / ’Cause I like you as you are,” when a student is spiraling, reacting in fear or anger to the idea that they need to change anything at all.
You might wonder why I would quote Mr. Rogers to students who are defiant, apathetic, or disrespectful. The answer is simple: grace.
There is something powerful about truly seeing another person. I often ask students to stand still and look me in the eyes when I call them into the hallway to talk about behavior. You’d be surprised how difficult that is for so many of them.
When our eyes meet, they know I see them, not a number. And they see me, not just a system. In that space, I offer boundaries—and a chance to return.
But God, grace is exhausting.
I am so tired. And I needed Fred Rogers to remind me that grace is not a finite resource. It doesn’t run out when we’re worn thin. There is always more.
A few years ago, I started telling my students that they are here on purpose, with a purpose, and that they have value simply because they were created. Somewhere along the way this year, I forgot how to teach that lesson well.
I’ve told them I love them. I’ve told them I want them to succeed. But I’ve gotten stuck on how they succeed and allowed the bigger truth—their inherent worth—to drift quietly to the sidelines.
There’s a scene where Mr. Rogers asks Mr. Vogel to sit in silence for one full minute and think about all the people who loved him into who he became. I want to be one of those people for my students.
I want them to look back and say, “She really loved me, even when I didn’t deserve it.” Or, “She loved me whether I did well in her class or not.” Or even, “She loved me enough to tell me to get my head out of my butt and keep trying.” I don’t know exactly what they’ll say—I just know I can teach comma usage and teach them that they matter.
Sometimes I get it right. Other times, I let anger and frustration over all the brokenness crowd out the heart of grace.
I’ve been pounding on the low keys of the piano for so long that I forget the other notes are still there, waiting to be played.
I want to return to praying for my students during that quiet moment at the start of the day.
“God, help me show them Your love today.”
And I want to let the pain of careless words from leadership pass through me instead of hardening into scabs and scars that block the flow of my heart.
I am a mess right now. A very tired mess.
God, help me get it right tomorrow. Give me grace again—for just one more day.
