Long-Term Subbing, High Expectations, and Teaching Through a Cold

Two weeks into school and—bam—I was already taken down by the cold virus. Stuffy nose, pounding headache, that charming cough that makes you sound like you’ve been yelling at a football game all weekend. Teaching is hard enough with a clear head, but teaching fueled by DayQuil and caffeine? That’s a special kind of challenge.

On Monday, I gave myself some grace. I loosened my expectations a little because I was dragging. The result? The class took full advantage. Transitions dragged, side conversations sprouted everywhere, and I felt like I was working harder than twenty kids combined. Classic rookie mistake—even though I should know better by now.

By Tuesday, I vowed to hold firm. Because here’s the thing: I truly believe kids will rise to the occasion when they have clear expectations, boundaries, and consistent consequences. They always do. I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. But the moment we let things slide? They slide right with us.

So, Tuesday was rough. They pushed back. They wanted loose and chatty. I wanted structured and focused. We were butting heads like characters in the first act of a teacher movie—the part where the kids test every ounce of patience their teacher has.

But Wednesday was better. Thursday was smoother. By Friday, we had our rom-com movie montage moment—me taking back control, the kids adjusting to the new normal, everyone figuring out their role in this little classroom ecosystem.

And you know what? It worked. Friday was one of those teacher-movie endings where kids are actually learning, I’m not just managing behaviors, and the room hums with lightbulb moments.

It helped, of course, that my cold was fading and I could finally breathe through my nose again. But mostly? It was the reminder that kids are incredible. They are capable of so much when we give them clear guidance, hold them accountable, and believe they can do hard things.

That’s my unofficial class motto this year: Work hard, then play hard. Or maybe it’s just my unofficial Katie motto. Either way, it’s working.

Because even when you’re sick, tired, or tempted to take the easy road, the truth is: high expectations aren’t about being strict. They’re about showing kids you believe they’re capable. And when they know you believe in them—they’ll rise. Every time.

When Burnt Turns Beautiful

If you’ve ever stood in your kitchen, suddenly aware that the “something smells funny” moment has arrived, then you already know where this story is going.

Last weekend, my husband and I were on top of things. We spent hours prepping twelve freezer meals, neatly labeled and stacked in the freezer, ready to dump into the slow cooker each morning. The goal? To conquer that dreaded 5 p.m. question: “What’s for dinner?”

The plan was foolproof—until Monday morning, when I dashed out the door for work and completely forgot to actually put the meal in the crockpot.

Not a big deal, I told myself. I’ll just cook it on the stovetop when I get home.

So I dumped the General Tso’s chicken into a skillet, set it to simmer, and plopped onto the couch with my phone. Teachers, you get it—sometimes you just need a little mindless scrolling after corralling kids all day.

And then it happened.

That smell.
The one that makes your heart sink straight into your shoes.

I raced to the stove, flipped the chicken, and groaned at the sight: the entire underside was blackened. Ugh. All that meal prep, wasted.

Except… not quite.

I cut into a piece, expecting raw or rubbery disappointment. Instead, the inside was perfectly cooked. So I cautiously took a bite—and it was delicious. Smoky. Crispy. Sweet. The char actually made it better.

What I thought was a flop turned out to be one of the best meals we’ve had in weeks.

And honestly? That’s exactly how this season of life has felt.

After being laid off, rejected, and tossed around by Plan A, Plan B, and even Plan C, it all felt burnt—charred beyond repair. But when I slowed down and really looked, I realized not everything was ruined. Some of it was just different. And different wasn’t bad. Different was… flavorful.

Life has a funny way of turning what looks like a mess into something surprisingly good. Like burnt chicken that tastes amazing. Or a detour that leads to rediscovering joy. Or a closed door that forces you to build something new.

So if you’re standing in your own smoky kitchen of life right now, convinced you’ve ruined it—don’t throw it out just yet. Give it a taste. You might be surprised at what’s still good.

Here’s to burnt dinners, unexpected wins, and unburnt spirits.

Plot Twist: I Found My Joy in Teaching Again

It started on a Tuesday morning with a text in our Teacher Tribe thread. One of my closest friends shared devastating news: her teammate’s husband had died unexpectedly. Our little group immediately sent love and condolences, aching for a woman most of us had never even met.

As I read those words, my heart dropped. I couldn’t help but imagine my own life being flipped upside down like that — my kids, my husband, my whole world unraveling right before a school year began. It made me pause and count my blessings. Even without full-time employment at the time, my family was healthy, safe, and together. That was everything.

That evening, my phone rang. I assumed it was my friend wanting to process the day. Instead, she got right to the point: she had told her principal about me and said I’d be perfect to take over her colleague’s class. Then she hung up because, apparently, the principal would be calling me in the next ten minutes.

Cue stunned silence.

Sure enough, the phone rang again. On the other end was a principal I’d never met, explaining the sensitivity of the situation and her deep desire to protect her 4th grade team. She trusted my friend’s recommendation so much that she offered me the long-term sub position on the spot.

It was Tuesday night. Teacher training started Thursday. Open House was Monday. The first day of school was Tuesday. Everything needed to happen fast.

My heart ached for the grieving teacher. I didn’t know her, but I felt the weight of her loss. At the same time, something clicked in me: I could do this. I wanted to do this. Fourth grade is the grade I’ve taught the most, and my best teaching years had been alongside the very friend who had recommended me. I’d done a long-term sub before and understood the challenges of stepping into someone else’s classroom. And honestly? My family needed the steady income.

I said yes.

The next day I was at HR signing papers. I called my mom and told her “Nana mode” had to activate early — I needed backup for the girls since this district started school a week before theirs. She was immediately on board. By Thursday, I was sitting in the library at a brand-new school, learning procedures, meeting kind colleagues, and realizing this was all falling into place in a way that felt bigger than coincidence.

When the first day of school arrived, the classroom was mostly ready (thanks to the original teacher), and my grade-level team had plans prepped. I walked in nervous but determined. And after that first week, something happened I didn’t expect:

I found my joy for teaching again.

I truly thought I was done. Last spring’s layoff broke me. The endless cycle of failed interviews and rejections over the summer convinced me I wasn’t a good teacher, that maybe I wasn’t wanted anywhere. I felt stomped into the dirt.

But maybe the dirt was exactly what I needed. Because seeds grow in dirt.

This unexpected opportunity became water and sunlight. It reminded me that I’m not a terrible teacher. Last year was hard. The rejection season was brutal. But I wasn’t done — I was just waiting to be planted somewhere new.

I don’t know how long I’ll be in this classroom. October? December? Longer? But I know this: my heart for teaching is back. I’m giving my best to these kids, to this school, and to the woman who will one day walk back into her classroom after unimaginable loss. When she’s ready, I want her to find her students cared for, ready, and waiting for her.

Plot twist: I didn’t lose teaching. I just had to rediscover it. And it turns out, joy was waiting for me all along.

Summer Break: The Parenting Version

Remember being a kid and counting down the days until summer break? Long, lazy mornings. Popsicles. Sprinklers. Zero responsibilities except maybe feeding your Tamagotchi.

Yeah. Turns out adult summer break is… not that.

Here’s what no one told me: once you’re the grown-up, summer break isn’t all sunshine and pool floats. It’s sweat, snack requests, and realizing your house cats are smarter than you because they refuse to move from the coolest spot on the floor. (Shoutout to Ted and Barney for living their best lives.)

Here’s the real adult version of summer break:

1. The snacks multiply.
When I was a kid, summer meant an Otter Pop. Now? My kids are apparently professional snackers training for the Olympics. Every 12 minutes it’s, “Mom, can I have a snack?” I’ve basically become a full-time pantry attendant.

2. The house is louder than a middle school cafeteria.
You know how summer sounds carefree in commercials? In reality, it’s kids shrieking over the hose, sticky flip-flops slapping the floor, and someone screaming “MOM!” from three rooms away. Meanwhile, Ted and Barney give me judgy side-eye for daring to disturb their afternoon nap.

3. Chores don’t take a vacation.
I thought summer break would mean less stress. Nope. The laundry pile looks like it’s trying to qualify for Mount Everest, and the dishwasher runs more than a Starbucks espresso machine.

4. Heat makes you rethink everything.
The kids want to go outside. Great! Except I’m melting on the sidewalk like a forgotten popsicle. The cats refuse to budge from the tile, and honestly, I’m starting to think they’ve got the right idea.

5. “Fun family outings” are a scam.
The kids beg to go somewhere fun. So I pack snacks, sunscreen, and water bottles… only to find out the snacks I packed are suddenly “gross.” Which means I get to BUY overpriced snacks on top of paying for tickets, parking, and whatever “must-have” souvenir catches their eye. By the time we’re at the activity — the one they begged for — someone’s whining, someone else is melting down, and I’m silently rethinking my entire existence. Why did I think family fun would actually be… fun?

And yet… here’s the wild part: buried under the chaos, there are these little flashes that remind me why it’s worth it. Sticky popsicle smiles. Backyard sprinkler laughs. Cats chasing shadows across the floor while the kids run barefoot until the sun sets.

Summer break as an adult isn’t restful. It’s messy and noisy and sweaty and expensive and exhausting. But it’s also memory-making in all its ridiculous glory.

So no, it’s not the popsicle-perfect summer I pictured as a kid. But maybe — just maybe — it’s better.

The Messy Middle (Where I Currently Live)

Right now, I’m not at the dramatic “end” of a story where everything ties up neatly, and I’m definitely not at the shiny “new beginning” part either. Nope. I’m smack in the middle — the messy middle.

It’s still summer, so subbing hasn’t started yet. I’ve circled September on the calendar like it’s the start of some grand new adventure… but for now? For now, I’m in limbo.

This middle space is weird. It’s the part no one really writes about — because it’s not glamorous. It’s not dramatic enough to be a “rock bottom” story, and it’s not polished enough to be a “how I made it” success story. It’s just… messy.

Here’s what my messy middle looks like:

• Waking up some mornings ready to conquer the world, and other mornings where “conquering the world” means unloading the dishwasher.
  

• Trying out little projects — like creating Teachers Pay Teachers resources, scribbling down blog posts, recording a podcast — and wondering if they’re building toward something bigger or just giving me an excuse to procrastinate on laundry.
  

• Pretending to “work from home,” but really falling down rabbit holes about fonts, Canva templates, and whether my logo looks more “cute business owner” or “PTA bake sale.”
  

• Feeling inspired one second and questioning my entire existence the next. (10/10 do not recommend Googling “what to do with your life” at 2 a.m.)
  

But here’s the thing I keep reminding myself: the middle is where the story actually takes shape. It’s where you try, fail, experiment, and accidentally build skills you didn’t even know you needed. It’s not the part you frame for Instagram — but it’s the part that makes the ending possible.

I don’t have it all figured out yet. I don’t have a neat five-step plan. What I do have is a lot of coffee, a messy notebook full of half-baked ideas, and the stubborn belief that something good is going to grow out of this season.

So, if you’re in your own messy middle right now — waiting, wondering, trying little things that may or may not stick — I see you. You’re not behind. You’re not failing. You’re just in the middle. And that’s exactly where the magic starts, even if it looks like chaos.

When Plan A Fails (…and Plan B, and Plan C, and the Alphabet is Starting to Look Short)

If you read my last post, you know I didn’t exactly float into this season of life on a graceful breeze. It was more like being tossed out of a moving car, clutching a binder of lesson plans and my favorite Expo marker.

The first few weeks after my teaching job ended, I threw myself into job hunting with the kind of manic energy you normally see in people who’ve had too much cold brew. I was ready. I was going to land that perfect role. I was going to reinvent myself. I was going to… apparently apply for jobs I didn’t even want just so I could feel productive.

Cue: The Fail Parade (a.k.a. My Tour of Rejections).

• Interview #1: Two days after finishing my 3rd grade teaching job, I found myself interviewing for… a 3rd grade position at the same school. Not the same classroom, but basically the same gig. (I know what you’re thinking — if they had your position open, why were you laid off? Good question! The short version: contracts, transfer requests, and so much district red tape it could gift-wrap the entire PTA auction basket. I was required to apply and interview again.)
  So I did. I thought they loved me. I mean, I just did the job! I poured myself into it, I’m a team player, I work hard to improve… and then? Nope. Didn’t get it. Absolutely crushed.
  

• Interview #2: Different school, same district, another 3rd grade position. We were vibing! We were laughing! I thought, “Okay, maybe this is my second chance. Same district, new school — this could work.” Spoiler alert: it did not work. Another rejection.
  

• Interview #3: New district, new school, same grade level. Weird vibes. Still, I answered the questions well, stayed personable, relatable, professional. And yet, it was another polite no thank you.
  

• Interview #4: Same district as #3, new school, new grade level. Honestly? Great vibes, great interview, felt amazing walking out. I even thought, “This is it. This is the one.” Nope. Another rejection.
  

• Interview #5: Back to the school from Interview #3 (because apparently I like pain). Different grade level this time, but again — great conversation, solid interview, even a flicker of hope. And yet again… denied.
  

And while I was on this merry-go-round of interviews, my inbox was overflowing with rejection emails. Some were from jobs I didn’t really want, but rejection still stings. One school district was especially good at rejection — Olympic medal level, honestly. They never let me miss a chance to feel unwanted. Every application I sent them was answered swiftly with a polite, soul-crushing “no.”

Other jobs looked promising at first, but then my applications would just stall in limbo until the inevitable rejection popped up weeks later.

By this point? I was SEVERELY humbled. My self-esteem had tanked. My self-worth was circling the drain. And I was starting to think my best career option was “professional blanket fort builder.”

But here’s the thing: messy doesn’t mean hopeless.

Because somewhere between the awkward interviews, the late-night Indeed spirals, and the days when I “worked from home” in pajama pants, I started creating little things just for me — a blog, a few Teachers Pay Teachers resources, the beginnings of a podcast. Tiny seeds I wasn’t sure would grow into anything.

And maybe that’s the point. We don’t always need a perfectly polished plan. Sometimes we just need to keep showing up, making the next small thing, even when our hair’s in a messy bun and our confidence is somewhere between “meh” and “pass the Oreos.”

The fails weren’t the end. They were the compost. And honestly? I think something pretty good is about to grow.

From Pink Slip to Passion Project: The Story Behind HeyKate

It happened in between Parent–Teacher Conferences.

One minute, I was getting ready to meet with another family. The next, I was told I was part of a “Reduction in Force.” In education-speak, that means the district doesn’t have the funding to keep your position — no matter how good you are at your job. It’s not a reflection of your performance. It’s simply money, budgets, and numbers.

But when you’re on the receiving end, it doesn’t feel like numbers. It feels like you’ve been erased.

There was no warning, no compassion, just the news and the unspoken expectation that I would push down my emotions and carry on. In that moment, I felt less like a human being and more like a cog in a wheel.

I took the news, asked my questions, shared my thoughts — firm but professional — and then walked right back into those conferences with warmth and grace, because that’s what my families deserved.

The kicker? This was the end of March. Which meant I still had months left to teach, knowing that no matter how hard I worked, my job would be gone. I did my best because I have integrity, but there were days I cried in the coat closet. Days I screamed in the car on the way home. Days I carried the weight of that loss like a stone in my chest.

When the last day of school came, I packed up my classroom and walked out for the last time. And then… I was lost.

For weeks, I floated through my days like I was underwater. No routine. No purpose. Just a hollow ache where my career used to be. I had been “Teacher Katie” for so long, I didn’t know who I was without it.

But slowly, a whisper began to break through the fog: Maybe this is your chance.

Maybe this was the moment to create something of my own. Something flexible. Something creative. Something that didn’t require permission to exist.

That’s how HeyKate began.

At first, it was just an idea: help small businesses with the work that bogs them down — content creation, admin support, maybe some Teachers Pay Teachers resources. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I could blend everything I loved: making educational materials, organizing chaos, and using my voice acting training to start a podcast or narrate audiobooks.

What started as a flicker of possibility became the blueprint for my next chapter — one I would write myself.

It hasn’t been easy. Some days I feel like a confident business owner. Other days I feel like I’m running a very elaborate lemonade stand. But even if that’s true, I’ve always liked lemonade.

So here we are. HeyKate is officially in business, and this blog (and podcast) will be where I share the truth: the wins, the flops, and the messy middle of building something from scratch.

If you’re starting over, thinking about it, or just need a reminder that you can rebuild from the rubble, you’re in the right place.

Because sometimes, the detour is where you finally find yourself.