Dear First-Year Teacher Me,

First off, congratulations on accomplishing such a goal. All of those nights spent cramming for tests that you couldn’t have cared less about actually turned into something, well, great. You did it! You’re here and I’m telling you now, this is going to be the craziest journey one human being can go on– that of being a teacher. Now, don’t panic, but you will be reprimanded by someone in authority for speaking your mind. You will be cussed at by parents over the phone for daring to call them at work. You are going to be called down to meet with parents first thing in the morning on a Monday so you won’t have slept out of worry, but you’ll get there, and they’ll respect your opinion and really value what you have to say.

You are going to meet the world’s best people in this job. And by the best, I mean the. absolute. best. They are going to become your tribe, the ones you call after a favorite student moves away, the ones who understand the worry that comes from knowing and reporting child abuse situations. You’ll go to them when a lesson fails and your classroom dissolves into tears and yelling (you, not them…) and you’ll vent to them when the kid you swore you connected with, decides to drop your class. They’ll be there to help your dream of performing at Disneyland a reality and they’ll stand with you as you say goodbye to your 8th graders at their last concert. They’ll be the ones who will cover your class, no questions asked, when your grandparents pass away or when you start losing your voice, and they will always take your side, even though sometimes, even you, makes the mistake.

You are going to tell kids that you won’t allow facebook friend requests until they graduate from high school, and then the day of graduation, you’ll get a couple each year who remembered.

You are going to build two choir programs in your first 7 years out of nothing and you are going to be able to watch as kids take charge and ownership of their love of singing. You are going to cry every year at the final concert and continue to cry until you watch your 8th graders leave on their last day. Even the ones who swore at you, the ones who refused to participate, the ones who told you they hated you… they will show up at your classroom door years later with hugs and stories of lives they are living now.

You are going to struggle. You are going to have more days that you go home crying than days where you feel on top of the world. You are going to pour your heart and soul into these little people, and feel every ounce of pain that comes from their traumatic upbringings. You are going to learn things about kids you wish weren’t true and you are going to teach kids who have had to endure assault, witness murders, watch their parents die, who care for their siblings when parents don’t come home at night, and those that haven’t showered in a month, because there is no adult at home who cares if they do or not. Every year in October and February you will come home and cry to your husband that you want to quit. You never will be serious, but in that moment you sure will feel like you are. You’ll fail to see the magic and the power that comes from teaching what you desperately love to little people who hurt so badly. You’ll forget all of the cards and letters and cut out hearts with notes of kids who love you. You’ll forget all of the tears of those that don’t want to say goodbye to you for summer.

But you will remember soon. You’ll see all of the beauty that comes from loving and hurting and caring for other people’s babies who don’t believe they are babies anymore. And they will frustrate you, push your buttons, call you names, and take our their anger on you. But they also will be some of the people who love you something fierce, who treasure your words, and who allow themselves to be changed by you.

You, little teacher, are going to do amazing things. Easy? No way in hell. Worth it? You believe it with every bone in your body.