Teaching Kids to Repair and Resolve (and Remembering to Do It Myself)

As both a teacher and a parent, a big part of my job isn’t just helping kids read, write, and do math; it’s helping them be human. Every day, I’m teaching small humans how to identify their feelings, find coping strategies, and navigate conflict without losing their minds (or mine).

As an elder millennial, I grew up in the “follow the rules, say sorry, take your punishment” era. You messed up, you said sorry (whether you meant it or not), and you moved on. The repair part, actually fixing what went wrong or talking it out, often got skipped.

Now that I’m the adult in the room (most of the time), I’ve realized how crucial that missing step really is.

All Feelings Are Welcome — Even the Ugly Ones

Kids need to know that all feelings are valid, even the big, messy, loud ones. Anger, frustration, jealousy, none of them are “bad.” They’re just… human. What matters is what happens after the feeling: how we process it, express it, and eventually repair.

And let’s be honest, adults are still working on that too. Sometimes “repair” looks like me muttering, “I’m sorry I snapped, I’m just hangry,” while heating up leftover mac and cheese at 9 p.m. We’re all human. Sometimes that means yelling in frustration and saying things you don’t mean. Sometimes it means being grumpy because you’re tired and hungry and taking it out on whoever dares be in your path when you explode. (Apologies to my husband, kids, and the customer service rep on the phone who caught the fallout.)

The Great Saturday Morning Showdown

Last weekend, I was having a lazy morning in bed while my girls played in the living room. It was peaceful, for about seven minutes. Then came the yelling and tears.

I asked my youngest what happened. She said her sister quit the game they were playing and it “wasn’t fair.” Then my oldest came in, inconsolable. Once she calmed down, she explained that her sister “wasn’t playing the right way,” so she quit. In retaliation, the youngest tore up her picture and threw some stuffed animals. (We call that “emotional theater.”)

As we unpacked the situation, it came out that my oldest hadn’t given her sister a chance to try something herself. I asked, “How would you feel if someone didn’t let you try and then quit on you?” She thought for a second and said, “I’d be mad.”

We brought little sister back in, and together we talked about what each person could’ve done differently. Everyone had feelings, everyone made choices. And, miracle of miracles, they both apologized, unprompted, and went back to playing together. My youngest even taped her torn picture back together.

It was a rare parenting win, the kind you wish someone had filmed so you could prove it actually happened.

The Harder Days

Of course, not every disagreement ends with hugs and tape. When I’m tired or overstimulated (and let’s be honest, that’s most days), I default to the classics:
“Go to your room!”
“Say sorry!”
“Knock it off!”

But when I’m in a clearer headspace, I remember that what I really want my kids to learn isn’t blind obedience, it’s self-awareness, empathy, and genuine repair.

We all lose our cool. The goal isn’t perfection; it’s coming back together afterward.

Parenting, Teaching, and the Common Ground

A few days later, I was texting with a neighbor about playground drama among our kids. We both laughed because, at the end of the day, we’re all just doing the best we can. Different parenting styles, different expectations, same goal: raising decent humans who can make mistakes, own them, and make it right.

And after sitting through dozens of parent-teacher conferences recently, that truth feels universal. Every parent I talked to, no matter their background or approach, loves their child fiercely and wants them to grow into kind, capable, respectful people.

The Takeaway

Teaching kids to regulate their feelings isn’t about keeping them calm all the time. It’s about showing them how to repair and resolve when things fall apart, because things will fall apart.

Whether it’s a torn picture, a playground argument, or a meltdown in aisle seven, these little moments are opportunities to connect, reflect, and model what being human really looks like.

And maybe, just maybe, next time they’ll handle it with grace, while I sip my coffee and pretend I totally have it all together.

Conferences, Candy, and Certification Panic

Nothing says fall like candy wrappers, conference notes, and a mild panic attack about your teaching certificate.

This past week has been a juggling act, half-day schedules, prepping for conferences, and still managing to squeeze in some actual learning between costume chatter and bell schedules that make no sense. Somehow, lessons got taught, papers got graded, and one ambitious art project took about four times longer than planned. You know the one, the “quick and easy” idea that seemed cute online until 25 kids needed repeated directions, reminders to stay on task, and redefining patience.

And honestly? I loved it.

Parent-teacher conferences reminded me why I still do this. It’s the sweet spot between “we’re all exhausted” and “look how much they’ve grown.” Hearing parents talk about how proud they are, seeing kids beam when we celebrate their progress, that’s the good stuff. That’s the part that makes the grading, the meetings, and the endless prep worth it.

But then I sat down to check my professional clock hours, because apparently, teaching every day doesn’t count as professional development. For those who don’t live in teacher world: clock hours are training hours we have to complete to keep our teaching certificates current. In Washington, that’s 100 hours every five years.

I’m sixteen hours short of renewing my certificate. Sixteen! And even though it doesn’t expire until the end of June, I have to apply for renewal by January 1st. So now, on top of lesson plans and conference notes, I’ll be signing up (and paying for) online courses to meet the requirement. Because nothing says “holiday season” quite like fees, forms, and PowerPoints titled Advanced Strategies for Data-Driven Engagement in Tier 2 Reading Interventions.

Still, even with the frustration, this fall has felt good. This class, this school, this district, they’ve brought my spark back. I actually enjoy walking into the building again. I feel proud of the work we’re doing.

So maybe I’ll spend a week or two of late nights clicking through clock-hour courses, hot cocoa in hand, pretending it’s all part of the festive season. Because underneath the stress and the silliness, there’s that steady heartbeat of why we stay: we love our kids, our classrooms, and the chance to make a little magic, even if the state wants a timestamp for it.

Falling Back Into Routine

Fall has this way of tricking me into thinking I’m about to become that version of myself again — the one who meal preps, lays out outfits the night before, and wakes up before the alarm with a peaceful smile and a perfect messy bun.
Spoiler alert: I am not that person.

Every morning starts the same way: my alarm goes off, and for a brief, dangerous moment, I consider the snooze button. But I’ve learned that the difference between a semi-smooth morning and full-on chaos is exactly nine minutes — the length of a snooze cycle. So I get up. Mostly.

The coffee pot timer is my love language these days. If I forget to set it, my whole morning feels slightly off — like the Wi-Fi’s lagging but in real life. I pack lunches (or at least toss together something that resembles a lunch), try to find an outfit that says “professional but comfortable” when all I really want to wear is sweats, and mentally run through the list of things I think I’ve already done. Did I shampoo my hair? Maybe. I honestly can’t remember, but it smells fine, so we’re calling it good.

Meanwhile, my girls are hunting down their shoes like it’s a scavenger hunt they didn’t sign up for. Backpacks? Check. Homework? Probably. Emotional readiness for the day? TBD.

My mom — bless her, truly — comes every morning to help get the girls on the bus so I can leave for work on time. She’s a talker, and I love her for it, but sometimes her cheerful morning chatter has me ten minutes behind schedule because, well… I want to talk too. (I get it from her.)

Once I finally make it out the door, audiobook playing, I’m in full “don’t spill the coffee, don’t forget the lunch, don’t hit the squirrel” mode. Traffic is its own adventure — a blend of brake lights, bad moods, and the occasional driver who thinks turn signals are optional.

When I get to school, I unload what feels like half my life: purse, lunchbox, backpack full of teacher things, and the sacred coffee cup. The office staff greets me with the kind of genuine kindness that makes 7:30 a.m. feel survivable, and for a second, I remember why I love this work.

Then comes setup — turning on the projector, finding the lesson plans, figuring out what “today’s schedule” actually means. There’s always something I don’t know. Where’s the copy paper? How do we take attendance here again? What’s the lunch routine? My teammates are saints. Patient, funny, endlessly helpful saints who deserve a medal for every time I pop my head into their rooms with a, “Hey, random question…”

And then the real show begins: a classroom full of fourth graders — curious, eager, silly, and endlessly surprising. They ask all the questions: “What if a volcano erupted under our school?” “How many minutes until recess?” “Do you have kids?” “What’s your favorite Pokémon?” They’re standing right on that line between childhood and independence — trying so hard to be mature while still delighting in the ridiculous.

They can spend five minutes earnestly debating what “six, seven” even means, and the next, collapse into giggles over a perfectly timed fart. No matter how responsible they’re trying to be, farts will always be funny.

And honestly? I love them for that. Their joy keeps the routine from turning robotic. They remind me that every day — no matter how messy the morning or how late the start — can hold something unpredictable, light, and genuinely fun.

When the day ends, I pack up and try not to question my sanity as my brain glitches from the sensory overload of questions, conversations, emotional regulation, planning, grading, and general fourth-grade silliness. I reset the classroom for the next day, make sure everything’s semi-ready, and gather up my personal essentials: purse, lunchbox, coffee cup, backpack, badge, and… sanity (if I can find it).

Back in the car, audiobook playing, I navigate grumpy drivers again — déjà vu with a different sunset.

Home means switching gears to mom mode. My girls greet me with hugs and a rapid-fire list of questions:
“What’s for dinner?”
“Can I have a snack?”
“Can I go play with friends?”
“Is it screen time yet?”

I check backpacks for papers, empty lunchboxes, and start dinner while trying to hold some sort of meaningful conversation. But let’s be real — by this point, someone’s tired, someone’s cranky, and someone’s zoning out (sometimes that someone is me).

My husband comes home, equally exhausted, and we finally all sit down together for dinner. It’s not fancy, but it’s ours — our little exhale after the day’s whirlwind.

Then comes bedtime: showers, stories, and the sweet chaos of getting everyone tucked in. And just like that, we reset.

It’s a busy season, but we’re finding our rhythm. This is a season of letting go of perfection and impossible expectations. A season of staying present, laughing at the chaos, and enjoying the simple, silly things — like hot coffee, kid jokes, and family dinners that end with sticky fingers and full hearts.

Because falling back into routine isn’t about getting it all right — it’s about finding joy in the in-between.

Stop Waiting, Start Choosing: Building What’s Next (Even in the Messy Middle)

Here’s the thing about the messy middle: at some point, you get tired of just sitting there.

After weeks of rejection emails, pajama “workdays,” and late-night Google searches about how to reinvent myself, I realized something: I was waiting around for someone else to pick me.

It felt a lot like elementary school dodgeball. Remember that? Standing in a line, hoping desperately not to be picked last while silently calculating whether you’d survive a ball to the face? That was me — except instead of gym class, it was job interviews. And instead of hoping for the kid with the best aim to call my name, I was hoping a principal or hiring manager would look at me and say, “Yep, she’s the one.”

But here’s the truth I didn’t want to face: sometimes you can’t wait to be picked. Sometimes you have to walk off the dodgeball line, grab your own ball, and start your own game.

So that’s what I’m doing.

This fall, I’m stepping into substitute teaching full time. Is it glamorous? No. Is it predictable? Also no. Will it give me the flexibility to pay the bills and build HeyKate on the side? Absolutely.

I’ve also decided to dive into a Master’s program at WGU. Terrifying? Yes. Necessary? Also yes. Because I want to grow. I want to sharpen my skills, create a career path that isn’t held hostage by levy votes and budget cuts, and finally learn how to use technology without yelling at it.
(Okay, let’s be honest. I’ll still be yelling at it. But at least this time it’ll be “educated swearing.” You know, fancier curse words I can back up with a degree.)

And then there’s HeyKate. This little blog, these podcast episodes, the TpT resources, the creative experiments — they’ve all been seeds. Tiny things I’ve been planting while wondering if they’d ever turn into something. But here’s the shift: instead of waiting for someone to hand me a seat at their table, I’m starting to cook my own meals.

I was tired of throwing spaghetti at the wall to see what stuck. So now? I’m writing my own menu. And let’s be real — some dishes will flop. (Looking at you, cauliflower pizza crust. Why did I think that was a good idea?) But some might actually turn out delicious.

Waiting felt powerless. Choosing feels messy, but it also feels strong.

I don’t have all the answers yet. I’m still in the middle, still juggling laundry and lesson plans and Canva fonts. But I’m not waiting for permission anymore. I’m grabbing an apron, pulling out the ingredients I’ve got, and making something new.

So if you’re stuck in your own messy middle, maybe it’s time to stop waiting, too. Write your own menu. Burn a few recipes if you have to. Swear at the Wi-Fi while you do it. At least you’ll know you’re cooking up a life that’s yours.

Because sometimes the power isn’t in being chosen. It’s in choosing.

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.