As a classroom teacher, I tried to ensure that my students learned to have a voice. I bit my tongue often, refraining from an automatic “No” when kids asked me to do things they wanted in their assignments, to bring up topics that seemed off task initially, or redirecting them when they seemed to be talking instead of working–hearing ghosts of principals past whisper that a silent room is an on task room in my ear–stopping to listen instead before I said anything.

I learned to ask questions and be inquisitive, asking them to explain: Tell me more. What might happen if you did that? How would that achieve the goal? What impact would that have on what we are doing or others in the group? What will you do if it doesn’t work?

I wanted them to learn to advocate for the things they felt were important to them…from where they sat in class to the way they used their planner to what their homework looked like and be able to explain their reasoning…and be able to handle it when a teacher said no, and understand why they said no. Some teachers are pretty rigid, requiring a particular type of pen be used and the letter “a” being written a certain way to the way the chair is set on the floor and where the books not being used are set on the desk. Later in life, that rigidity extends to the way notes are input into a system for documentation and how presentations are prepared, so knowing when it’s appropriate to advocate and what it’s important to advocate for matters–the color of the pen may not matter, but having a say in the presentation prep does.

Having a voice matters. Learning how and when to use it matters.

Some seem to use theirs with wild abandon, caring not about the harm their words could have, being positive that they’re right, that everyone who disagrees with them is wrong, and that their voice, being the loudest, should be the only one that gets heard. Others choose to use theirs intentionally, choosing words to ensure that their meaning is clear, measuring their tone and their cadence so that there is no question in the message their voice is carrying.

The struggle happens when you enter a season of life when you aren’t sure if what you have to say matters anymore…or when you question whether your voice is worth using and worry that using it will have an adverse impact on the things that matter more.

I have been coughing almost non-stop since July. Probably a bit before. I’m not sick. I feel fine. I have had antibiotics, allergy medication, doctor’s visits…nothing seems to be wrong. But yet I cough. Almost constantly. Some days, it’s worse than others, but I’ve pinpointed that it’s worse on days when I have things to say and can’t say them. There was a fairly large upheaval in my world around the same time the coughing began, and I was trying to save relationships while setting boundaries and determining how I was going to bring my own leadership to the table. And there was a lot I felt uncomfortable saying altogether because no matter how I said what needed to be said, someone would be hurt, myself included. There’s no doubt in my mind that it’s all related.

I have not written, really written, since July either. I’ve journaled here and there. I’ve tried prompted journaling, journaling into my phone, on paper, and just jotting down how the day went, but that’s not writing. I am not a great orator…and I’ve never purported to be. Writing is my outlet. Friends have suggested journaling or writing and saving it all up for a book one day, but part of my struggle is that I want to share things that are relevant…and relevant only lasts for so long. I’m not a data collector who enjoys spreadsheets that spit out trends over time…I’m more of an in-the-moment feeling and observing type…that’s what’s relevant…the now.

I promised a friend that I’d write every day this summer. If it counts, I’ve opened this page, and added something almost every day since my “break” began. I’ve added and deleted. Deleted and rewritten. Stared at and given up to take a nap. Read and teared up and slammed the computer shut. Opened the computer, fought the cat for the keyboard, given up, and played fetch with the dog instead.

I still have a lot to say.

Some about teaching the tall poppies because they’re fascinating and wonderful and deserving of space.

Some about leading and supporting the people who do the teaching because they are also fascinating and wonderful…and deserving of being celebrated.

Some about leading altogether, because that’s a trip for sure.

Some about just existing in the education space right now, because some days it’s glorious and some days it’s deflating. And when you throw gifted into the space, it churns the waters a fair bit.

And some about living gifted…because sometimes that just makes everything a little more complicated…a lot more complicated.

I have been on Winter Break since the 21st of December. Each year, I say that it is not long enough and that I could use another week, another month, yet I am somewhat ready to return to the familiar, the flow of the day, the work, the week.

There is a spot on my couch from which I can watch the sun rise at home, partially blocked by other townhomes and my own roof, but it’s just enough of a view that I get the most significant bits. I have managed to catch it almost every morning now that the dog and I are in a groove of getting up before God is awake and crawling back into bed to sleep a bit longer before we really get out of bed to greet the day appropriately. During the regular work week when I’m not on break, I see the sun beginning to rise as I round the corner onto the street parallel to the interstate, the deep oranges starting to show themselves along the horizon with the rest of the sky growing a deeper blue, then brighter, then lighter.

Some days, there are no colors, the clouds hiding everything, only allowing the light to remove the darkness but letting no color through, keeping things gray.

Each January, a friend offers a word to ground us in the new year. Words like simplicity, gratitude, change, growth…nouns that encompass something important we want or need from the new year.

Last night, as she led several of us through a lovely Yin practice via Zoom, I determined my own word for 2024. 

Some days, I have felt colorful and bright…others, gray and small, hidden behind clouds. 

But, like the sun, there was never a day that I didn’t rise.

I chose this word because it is both a verb and a noun. Essentially, it means to move forward, upward, to make progress. There is no stagnancy in the idea of “rise.” 

It’s easy to stay where things are comfortable and predictable, plodding along. That’s not to say that everything should be upended, but rather, intentional change leads to progress…and keeps things vibrant.

I saw a note on a social media group the other night while I couldn’t sleep asking how to determine if a child is gifted if they are not academically high achieving. Thankfully, many responses, including my own, indicated that the two are not the same thing, and it is much more complicated.

Linda Silverman says that gifted is who you are, not what you produce.

And trying to explain that to people is also complicated because often, so much of who we are as adults is, in fact, what we produce. That’s all we know.

We are the boxes we check off, the items on the to-do list with a line through them.

We are the accomplishments we achieve, the plaques on the wall.

We are the recognition of a job well done, a raise or a promotion.

Our worth is tied to what we get done in a day, in the 40-80 hours in a workweek that we throw ourselves headlong into every Monday morning.

Our worth, as adults, is inherently tied to what we produce.

How many of us go home at night bemoaning the long to-do list that only grew longer that day, all the tasks left not finished because other things, not on the list, had to happen.

*raises hand* I know I do. There is great satisfaction in checking a box (or adding to the list so you can check off that box too). And a greater frustration when the list is longer at the end of the day than when you started.

The thing is that what we DO get done in a day is often what illustrates our values and isn’t always easily measured.

You chose to support a colleague through a difficult situation instead of respond to the neverending stream of incoming emails.

You chose one meeting over another because the topic was interesting to you, and you felt you could contribute more.

You chose to go home, leaving your computer at work, so you could play tabletop games with your kids before bed or watch their cross-country race.

You chose to have a conversation about what could be…or problem-solve so that perhaps tomorrow might be better.

You chose to cover a colleague’s class for a little while so someone else didn’t have to rearrange things…and you got to read aloud and be with kids for a bit, reveling in the complexity and beauty that is third-grade cursive practice and the well-crafted capital S…or q…because neither of those are easy.

If your choices in a day reflect the values you hold, then you’re still doing important work. The list will be there tomorrow.

It’s the same for gifted kids. What’s their important work?

For some, it’s the care-taking of others. For some, it’s learning something not remotely close to the syllabus because it’s interesting. For some, it’s an adventure or creating something no one has thought of yet just to see if they can.

Gifted kids are more than the boxes on a record sheet with scores in them that align to a label. They are more than a to-do list of assignments with lots of “complete” checkboxes.

Gifted is who they are. And it is complicated.

CAGT (Colorado Association for Gifted and Talented) 2023 is around the corner at the beginning of October. It begins the day that my school’s Read-A-Thon Weekend ends. I will once again be exhausted, and there’s no getting away from it. I’ve worked with wonderful people over the last several years as a part of CAGT and the committees it has developed. Everyone is there for the right reason…because they believe that gifted kids need something different and want to support as many educators and parents as possible so that they can provide environments where gifted kids can thrive. This one event, planned over many months, is the culmination of the incredible ability of people to imagine that the kids we serve could experience something more, the belief that we have more to offer the gifted population, and the constant yearning for growth.

I wrote the piece below as a Facebook post during last year’s Conference, having been part of the committee putting it together. I teared up more than once, watching colleagues support one another, doing whatever needed to be done to make it successful. Teachers (as a species, because we all know they’re not altogether human…there has to be some superhero in there) are dedicated to their craft, and those who choose to go beyond and put together events like this in support of kids and their needs…there’s no one like them on earth. I see you…the heart you put into this work on behalf of kids and those who support them. The conversations with you are rich and passionate, with the hope always to provide something better for the kids we serve. You are my tribe, and a massive part of my choice to do this Big Work for the greater good…mentors all. I am grateful for the path you’ve helped me navigate.

A reflection…

As educators, we get to go to conferences now and then. Research says that teachers don’t use 90% of what they are “taught” at conferences, so they aren’t the best way to distribute opportunities for new learning.

I’ve watched teachers whose schools/districts paid far too much money for them to attend sessions sit in common areas in a hotel to work, get grading done, or do anything that isn’t attending sessions to bring back information to share with others. I can’t blame them…it’s uninterrupted time away from home where no one can bother them.

I’ve also watched teachers fervently take notes during sessions, ask incredible questions, talk with colleagues, and connect and network with other educators to continue collaboration even after the conference is over. They understood the assignment.

I’ve worked the back side of conferences as a presenter and organizer (of far smaller conferences), and now as part of the conference planning committee of a state-level conference.

Here is what I’ve learned, having been on the attendee side and now the planning side of educator conferences. Despite the “research,” they are worthwhile.

People choose to serve at a conference and do this work because they want to give back. They offer up their time and sometimes their skills (that often they wish they didn’t have) to put on a conference they hope others will enjoy and take something away from.

They aren’t paid for their time beyond lunch, a snack, a coffee bar between sessions, and a hotel managers’ “reception” that includes draft beer, iffy wine, and possibly mixed drinks of varying quality. They work vendor booths, problem-solve missing registrations, support AV and tech issues for vendors and presenters, network to grow the organization, share in the happiness of those receiving awards for hard work finally being acknowledged, and work to build relationships with vendors and sponsors so that they’ll feel taken care of and supported and come back next year.

And few see what goes on before the first day of the conference. They aren’t privy to the gripping and grinning, the deal-making, the enormous amount of time and energy, and the tears that go into all the things that run in the background.

But they get to hear participants network and connect in passing. They get to see old friends meet in the hallways and new friendships made over shared experiences. They get to see first-time presenters engage in a room full of skeptics. They get to see seasoned presenters share their knowledge and areas of passion, and connect with new educators, seasoned educators working to see things differently. They get to see vendors and exhibitors share what they do with participants….and know that, in some cases, they’re supporting a small local business and helping it to grow.

A friend asked tonight during a networking event what I hope to get out of conferences like this. What do I want to take away?

I want to learn something…even if it’s not applicable tomorrow. Being able to use it tomorrow is nice, but I want to be able to think months from now, “Oh! I remember I heard someone talk about..” and have it spawn a new idea.

I want to support a friend who works their ass off to reach kids and make their school experience relevant by being the friendly face in the audience who knows what they do is important and believes in them.

I want to know that for a few days, the people around me SEE me. And understand me and know why I do the things I do. I want to know that just for a few days, I am among my tribe….the people who understand why I cry when I present or talk about the kids I serve….because they have their own names and faces on a slideshow in their minds too.

I hope to take home a sense of belonging…the knowledge I’m a part of something bigger than my tiny corner of the world.

This year so far has been unbelievably difficult for lots of reasons. I have griped and complained. I have cried oodles of tears (a friend says they’re cleansing…) I have been wrestling with all the internal commentary (and some external) and existential crises about my participation in all the things as a presenter, a participant, a conference planning committee member, a teacher, a dean, a girlfriend, a friend, a dog mom…sometimes all at the same time which leads to 30 minutes of sobbing while driving…all in the name of “enough.”

I am tired. Exhausted, really. Even exhausted doesn’t cover it, if I’m honest.

But all of this has allowed me to see the good in people. Most people want to do right by one another…they want to be kind and supportive. They want to participate in things that are for the greater good. They want to acknowledge the hard work that people do. They want to be a resource for others and help create a better space for those around them.

They want to make the world a slightly better place. One conference at a time. Because I know I won’t catch all of you before the end of tomorrow, thank you for being here…for doing what you do to support the kids and teachers we serve, for being lifelong learners… It matters more than you know.

I have two portable air conditioning units in my house, each attached somewhat to a sliding glass door. One in the living room and one in the bedroom. It used to be that for a week in July, one would wish for air conditioning or a cool basement, but now, wishing for air conditioning begins in April and lasts through a good part of September because climate change is a thing. Unfortunately, it’s rather complicated to simply “add” it to my existing house and also fairly expensive. So it’s now future me’s problem.

Initially, I didn’t mind the background noise. But as summer went on, I began to find it irritating because the rhythm of it interrupted things and drowned out the noise I wanted, like audiobooks, podcasts, and mindless streaming reality shows, requiring the volume to be up so loud people down the block could hear it clear enough to know which yachtie had done what stupid thing this time or what true crime was being analyzed by people who may or may not know anything but tell a great story.

What’s difficult about the background noise isn’t that it’s there, necessarily. It’s that it’s constant. And loud. And it needs to be on and working all the time in order to keep the house cool. On the odd day that it’s cool enough to shut them off, the quiet is deafening, but oh, so welcome.

When I went through my daily shutdown ritual tonight (that I haven’t done in weeks, if I’m honest…) the message above is what Sunsama gave me. It’s creepy sometimes, how unrelated programs and devices know what’s going on in one’s world…

It’s timely, though. So much of the work we do from day to day is drowned out by the background noise of the world around us demanding that we pay attention, we struggle to notice the important bits.

Kids being kind to one another, compliments and kind words that they’ll hold on to for the times they need to hear them again.

The undercurrent of happy kids chattering at lunchtime or in class about the wonderings they have.

The trembling in the voice of a momma worried about their little one, unsure of what to do next.

The unspoken message in a hug from a used-to-be-little that lasts just a bit longer this time.

The reminder from a mentor or friend that your values matter and you’re not nuts for all the feels.

The snippets from a meeting that stick like cat hair on …everything.

Sunrise and sunset.

The rhythmic breath of furs without jobs as they cuddle against you at night, each in their claimed spot.

“Yes, and…”

Tears slipping from tired eyes.

“More, please.”

“I love you…” whether it comes in those three words or “Don’t forget your umbrella.”

Background noise…which some days is louder than others, so you have to listen more closely for the important bits. It’s the important bits in the silence that give us the strength to get up and try again tomorrow.

In April, administrators have their feet in two worlds: the tail end of one school year and the beginning of another. It’s the month when the goal of the last several weeks of school is to ensure everyone, including students, teachers, and families, get what they need. It’s the month when angry “this has been going on all year” rings like church bells every hour, and a moment later, a flood of “thank you for what you’ve done; you’ve made a difference” happens. It’s a month of mixed feelings: frustration and hope, sadness and excitement. May is one of my favorite months, but also the busiest, thinking about two school years at once, moving from task to task, while taking time away from box-checking for important things like spring events, continuation and graduation ceremonies, and seeing graduates who have grown up into actual adults.

Some of my kids and their friends are graduating high school in a few weeks (one technically graduated in December), headed off to college and other adventures, beginning the next part of their lives. They grow up so quickly, a friend noted while sharing photos of some of our shared kids this week. It was just yesterday that one was sitting beside me on the floor of my classroom painting the “low parts” in the corner nearest the exterior door, the wall that would eventually become our tech corner. Two sat at a table sobbing over a book, asking if it was ok that they cry–they just identified with the characters so much. Another joined our classroom and had a gaggle of friends within seconds–many of those friendships are still strong now.

One of my favorite pictures is of this group of kids: a silhouette of several sitting together along the back of my classroom couch in front of our huge windows, looking outside as the snow was falling one afternoon. They were among the most cohesive groups of kids I’ve ever taught. They were kind to one another, supported each other, were empathetic and inclusive to anyone new. They were the first group I taught who learned to self-advocate, and who showed me that not all teachers are as accepting of that self-advocacy…shooting down what I felt were reasonable requests before they’d even finished sharing their reasoning. They’re the group who, even at 10, had huge plans for their lives. They planned to become writers, activists, doctors, firefighters and military members, attorneys, teachers, composers, engineers…and anything else they can imagine because they have their whole lives to do whatever brings them joy.

My friend gave me the graduation announcement for her boy, who has somehow transformed into an actual dude…a guy…complete with that facial hair nonsense (“I just shaved yesterday!”) and a wingspan that rivals Michael Phelps. I seriously cried. In my mind, he’s four going on five, barely hip high…and thankfully, he has retained the kindness, curiosity, and empathy of that little one who helped me paint my classroom so long ago.

My two worlds right now are more than just this school year and next. My mind remembers these young ones whose curiosity about the world brought such joy to my day and who helped me become a reasonably good teacher, embracing my own curiosity, as well as my mistakes and opportunities for growth because they needed to see that those things still happen when you’re a grown-up. And my heart is so full of love and pride for these kids and hope for their futures.

I hope that their lives are full of happiness and joy and that they do things in their lives that are meaningful to them, even if some of it is difficult.

I hope that they go off and do good in the world. Good doesn’t have to be big…it can be as simple as showing kindness and empathy when they can, demonstrating integrity and honesty in their interactions with others.

I hope that they find a sense of accomplishment in what they choose to spend their time doing. I hope they know that they’re so very much enough, and not ever “too much” of anything. I hope they surround themselves with good humans who make their lives better by simply existing. I hope that they share the beautiful people they are with the world…it needs more of them.

Go off and do good, sweet kidlets. The world is yours.

I went to a job fair this weekend to showcase our school. We have a wonderful staff, serve amazing students, and have fabulous families. We get to work with gifted kids, an underserved population. Our work is not easy, but it’s rewarding beyond measure, and those of us who have chosen to be there are there for good reasons and believe in the work we get to do every day. Life happens, and sometimes people need to make choices that take them away from our community, but even when we aren’t looking to fill positions, we want to be sure that people know who we are at fairs like this, at conferences, at networking events, and out in the greater community too.

The group hosting the fair was honest with all of us who were going to attend. There would be almost a hundred schools for less than half of the number of teachers that they would see at a job fair pre-pandemic. I arrived before most representatives, but those there before me were setting up, ready to grip and grin with bells on, sharing how wonderful it is to work with them, the focus of their school, their community, and how they could help a teacher grow. We had a prime spot, visible just as teachers walked through the door. Some tables would remain empty, other things likely taking priority so they couldn’t make it. The energy in the room was mixed: excited and hopeful…worried and anxious at the same time.

I remembered the last job fair I represented us. The job-seekers came in droves and there was a constant chatter all day between seekers and finders. Teachers stopped at many tables to see where they might want to teach–they dropped resumes, sold themselves, shared their hope for the future. They were young, bright-eyed, and excited to begin the next part of their professional lives.

This year it was different. Schools posted their open positions on boards at their tables. Many sought classroom teachers, others specialists, and still others a variety of interventionist-based positions. I glanced at my watch when the doors were to open to allow job-seekers in, and no one came through the door save six high school students helping to support those of us at the fair.

Gradually, a few teachers trickled in, and most were older, with years of experience. Most bypassed me because of where our school is located–no one wants to relocate because they have spouses, children, and mortgages. The few who stopped were looking for very specialized positions: English teacher for AP courses only, high school STEM with a focus on pre-engineering courses, music, but with a flexible schedule that allowed them to teach when they liked and didn’t require extra duties like lunch or recess coverage or the requirement that they attend staff meetings or parent conferences. They said they wanted to be where their talents were honored and respected and where no one would ask them to do more than what their professional plan called for: teach. One asked about administrative support for teachers. They said they expected to have an administrative assistant–they’d had one paid for with ESSER dollars and now were seeking a school that would guarantee that for them even after ESSER dollars are spent.

One was graduating in May: a new teacher. Very anxious, but also very hopeful. They wanted a promise that they would not have active shooter drills or have students who needed behavioral support–they had kids in their student teaching who needed 1-1 support and wanted guarantees that they wouldn’t have that experience again. They wanted to teach the kids they read about in books–Mrs. Frizzle’s class–who were excited to learn and who didn’t cause problems in class. They asked about curriculum: they wanted complete autonomy as to what they taught and had some neat ideas, and in the same breath wanted all the materials handed to them, so they didn’t have to plan. They asked about our class size–22 and 23 is too many–they were looking for a max of 12-15 per teacher. They asked about the pay: they heard that new teachers are now starting at $60-70K a year and at 23, should surely be making more than that to start–they’d worked in child care in college so had experience already. Um, no.

I talked to people from the group that organized the fair. They were disappointed in the turnout, though they weren’t surprised. They’d been honest with all of us with the number of possible applicants vs the number of schools coming. Fewer than half of those who had signed up to drop resumes or interview even bothered to come. We talked about teachers who have left the profession, the expectations we’d overheard in conversations between applicants and school representatives, and what the teaching programs were seeing–fewer enrolling to start with and many quitting before they’d even started. Kids of all ages hear what adults say…and some choose to leave a profession before their career has even started because of what they hear from the public.

We talked about how to sell teaching as a great choice for a profession. We talked about education needing to change and shift with the needs our students and their families experience now. We talked about how charter schools have a bit more room to innovate, but how they’re still bound by all the same rules as a traditional school in a big district. We talked about funding, and the continued lack of it, and the ongoing pressure to do more with less while watching the legislature debate whether or not schools should be given the money they need to do the work or whether adequate funding should be withheld until educators bend to the will of the politicians and specific groups who want school to eliminate anything that doesn’t fall into their bucket of preferences.

Teachers were lauded as heroes for a little while not so long ago and everyone would say that it’s nice to be appreciated. Pandemic teaching came with lots of thank yous.

The public saw what they thought school looked like and sounded like in boxes on a computer screen. And after the crisis passed a little bit, they got scared that what they saw on Zoom was really what school was like now and much of the political fervor around education reform stems from those fears. (spoiler alert: That isn’t what school is like and never was. Pandemic teaching was a response to a crisis and was messy, painful, and attempted to keep a semblance of normalcy where none could have possibly existed.)

Educators everywhere are disillusioned, angry, and sad. There’s a comedy show touring comprised of teachers who left the profession who tell horror stories of situations they endured at the hands of their administrators, their districts, the families they served. We laugh, but we know that they aren’t lying about what they experienced because on some level, all of us have had a similar experience or two. Teachers are being told by politicians and conservative groups that they aren’t allowed to share books with students because books encourage learning and thinking about things that those groups don’t agree with. They disagree with stories that share concepts like kindness, community, support of others, diversity of background, different belief systems, as well as those that tell the stories of actual historical events…all of those are targets for those demanding books be removed from classrooms and libraries. Teachers are still told in 2023 that they aren’t allowed to be out in the community after dark, must be seen at church every week, can’t be seen in restaurants that serve alcohol (whether they’re drinking or not), and can’t have side jobs or side hustles–someone is bound to be offended whether they’re teaching fitness classes at a gym on weekends or tutoring kids who need some extra support. And heaven forbid they’re seen in a library with a book in their hand. They might be fired on the spot and run out of town.

And the media frenzy around people who do horrible things to kids is non-stop…and the media is sure to point out that those people called themselves teachers.

So yeah, there’s a shortage of teachers. And those who remain are doing everything they can to provide a good, solid education for the kids who turn up in their classrooms every day. In many schools, administrators who began as teachers are going back to their roots to teach in the classroom too–maybe to cover for someone who is out, perhaps one class, maybe full days, but they’re right there…

Educators who serve kids do all the things in their job descriptions and then some every day. And they have hope that the kids we’re serving right now will be the ones who grow up and make our educational system what it should be: a system in which kids get what they need to be able to learn and grow and think critically about the world and all that goes on in it so that they can go off into it to do good.

That’s a big part of why we do this work. We need more good people willing to do this work while those of us currently in it try to make it a better profession for all of us, now and in the future.

Again, I realize it has been a hot minute since I sat myself down on the well-worn and much-replacement-needed carpet between my couch and coffee table to write.

It’s hard to know what to write about sometimes, I said with sympathy to a young one in tears today over an all-school writing assignment. Today was plan and draft day. Yesterday, classes discussed what they might choose to write about, using the power of the collective to brainstorm topics they might write about. Some had ideas. Others couldn’t commit. And others insisted that they didn’t know anything about anything.

This is the part where kids get stuck. Gifted kids can get stuck just after the words “writing prompt” come out of their teacher’s mouth. What’s the topic? Do I know anything or enough about it to write something that makes sense? What if I don’t know anything? What if I know a lot? What if it’s my favorite thing and I know everything there is to know and have very strong opinions about why it’s important for people to understand what a big deal this thing is?

What if it’s not perfect?

When I teach writing, I ask kids who their audience is (or who it might be–they may change their mind after they get started!) and why they’re bothering to write at all. Responses to these questions begin with “you” and “Because you are making me.” We write those things at the top of the page so we remember who we’re writing for and why we’re writing to begin with. Gradually, as we build trust, their audience becomes “the city planning people,” and their purpose transforms into “what they’re doing to our open space is horrible and will have lasting impacts on wildlife and our neighborhoods,” the page dotted with tears of rage and hurt because what if they won’t listen?

A long time ago a teacher I admired noted that writing is just another way to communicate, and it’s important to identify those two things, audience and purpose, even if they may change as you write, just like we would in conversation. Topics and the tone of a conversation change depending on who we’re with and what we’re sharing. I wouldn’t discuss my latest true crime obsession with a parent while giving a tour of our school. I wouldn’t share my mini-TED talk on educational philosophy while having a romantic dinner at a nice restaurant with my person. The parent would think I was nuts and reconsider our school as a place for their child and my person would roll his eyes and wish I’d stop talking and go back to binge-watching The West Wing.

Young gifted writers have a vast collection of interests, a variety of opinions, and volumes of stories to share…but they get stuck when they’re asked to pick something and just write. So they tear up and sniffle. Rip the page. Use the page to create an origami owl…or a bat…or a dinosaur with big teeth. Draw and make patterns on the lines. Write IDK in a thinking web. Cover the page in crocodile tears and eraser marks…

And they ask, “How can I choose an audience or purpose if I have no idea what I’m going to write? I don’t want to be wrong!”

Older gifted writers have the same problem sometimes. We have so much to say about so many things…what if the one we commit to is the wrong one? And what if we commit to one and then write it wrong–targeting the wrong audience or with the wrong purpose?

So we open and shut the tab (often the only tab that ever gets shut) for our blog, our poem, our op-ed, our conference session proposal, our diary entry, our reflection on the day, the grocery list or to-do list… Sometimes staring at a blank page is better than committing to a word…because one word begins a flood of others that rush onto the page eventually requiring revision, editing, saving for later, or removing altogether (and then you feel bad about removing them because they mattered too). And that leads to having to DO something with them all…hitting send or publish or save or print or submit.

And then they’re out there..where they can be judged.

I admire the hell out of stand-up comedians when they’re just starting out and have no street cred. They take big risks standing up on the stage under the hot lights with a glass or bottle still somewhat full of liquid courage in one hand hoping that someone will laugh..or at least snicker..to grant permission to the rest of the group to do the same. They clasp the microphone in their other hand praying to something greater than themselves that no one will groan…yawn…or throw something.

It’s the judgment that kills us both, the writer and the performer, sending us spiraling into the land of self-doubt, negative self-talk, and hopelessness that we’ll never be the communicator we should be. And so we stop altogether.

Now imagine being 7 or 11…or 15…with adults holding a big chunk of your self-worth in their green or purple pen. Wouldn’t you be unwilling to risk it?

When we approach writing as a process during which we aren’t judged for what we share or how we choose to share it, we’re likely to be willing to take that risk over and over again, improving our craft, experiencing the process willingly, and seeking out feedback so we can grow in our practice as writers. Begin with praising their ideas, their risk-taking, their excitement to share their thoughts. Talk about the work that writers do, how they choose words, and rechoose them, moving them around the page and experimenting with their order. Share drafts of your own writing–you’re a writer too–and demonstrate what it is to be vulnerable before other writers. Celebrate the sentence. The powerful conclusion. The perfect word to illustrate exactly what they want to say. Play with cadence and emphasis and complexity of language. Writing is music, equations, experimentation, physics, performance, art…

All this, says the writer who has thousands of things to say and hasn’t found the courage to commit to a single word.

Yet.

After a while, the therapist queried, “You know it’s not your job to do all the things, right?”

The patient responded, “I realize that, however, some of the things will not get done unless someone does them, and the Someones who could be doing them aren’t stepping up because their boundaries say that those things shouldn’t be or aren’t their responsibility.”

For all the talk about the importance of boundary-setting as a part of self-care, there’s a question that continues to be overlooked.

Once you’ve set your boundaries around what you will and will not do, what happens to the things that you will not do?

Someone else has to do them.

Who is someone else?

What about their boundaries?

What about the things that still need to get done?

It’s an infinite loop.

Hard and fast boundaries don’t allow for the delegation of tasks to someone else…their boundaries don’t allow for new tasks to be added to their list.

Strict boundaries don’t allow for growth opportunities in areas of interest or in areas of skill.

Boundary-based refusal creates a bigger problem for the big picture when the things still need to get done and aren’t getting done because they all seem to fall beyond everyone’s boundaries.

Sometimes the things that need to get done aren’t things that can be ignored. Ignoring them creates more things…more complicated things…they’re like Tribbles.

Sometimes the things that need to get done are the things that need to be done by the person closest to the situation…not someone outside the situation. Involving someone outside the situation fractures trust.

And sometimes, the things that need to get done require follow-up and follow-through…and someone outside the situation isn’t the best person to do either one.

The excuse that a task is beyond one’s pay grade only really applies for tasks that require a specific set of skills or knowledge–and the assumption that neither one can be obtained through doing the task. (And that statement “beyond my pay grade” is incredibly insulting to both parties, tbh.)

The therapist asks, “Well, what IS your job?”

The patient* says, “To do the things that need to get done. I have a list…in multiple places…that keeps growing. Beyond that, I really don’t know.”

*often a gifted person of any age