It didn't break all at once. It unraveled quietly, through small changes that slowly reshaped the work I loved.
I can’t identify the precise moment when the education world as I knew it changed. It wasn’t like an earthquake – it wasn’t a Richter-registering change that ricocheted throughout the world in one fell swoop. It was a series of tiny, subtle tremors beneath the earth. At first, it was almost unnoticeable. But then, eventually, the small changes piled up into one big snowball that was impossible to ignore.
The First Tremors
I was working at a great school when the first shifts happened. This school was one of the best in the entire district. I loved my administration. I loved my co-workers. I loved my families. I had narrowed my teaching world down to third grade special education, a niche where I felt most aligned, most effective, and most me.
I was settled into a very good place. I felt secure. I was happy.
But even in this good place, I felt the pinch begin.
It started quietly. Our administration became reluctant messengers, delivering district directives.
“You must follow the pacing guide exactly.”
“The district needs this concept taught by this date.”
“Schools will be ranked on a list against every other school.”
Suddenly, even in this happy, great school, the seed was planted that our work would no longer be measured by growth, relationships, or student independence. Instead, the school’s worth was measured by where we landed on a list.
On what number we ranked.
When Progress Became a Ranking
My school had a large special education population. Our students’ scores could “make us” or “break us” in the district’s eyes. And it was impossible not to feel the shift in what was valued.
If a third-grade student entered my classroom reading on a kindergarten level, and by May achieved two full years of reading growth, that should have been a triumph. But the district didn’t see that triumph. The district didn’t know the work that had been put into that triumph.
They only saw a student who still couldn’t pass the third-grade test.
This was the first time that I really realized that for the district, these students were faceless ID numbers. Their growth only mattered if it produced the “right” number – a test score that was an indicator of grade level content mastery.
Then came the district mandated assessments – standardized tests given at multiple times during a year, at fixed checkpoints, to prove whether students had mastered skills or concepts “on time.”
I dreaded these days. I knew exactly how they would go. I would stand in front of my students – children with real disabilities, real stories, real emotional needs – and hand them a test written far above their functional reading level. And I would have to smile and say, “Do your best. I believe in you!”
And I did believe in them. I believed in their courage and in their heart. I believed in their ability to learn and to grow at their own pace. I believed in their ability to overcome learning difficulties that many of their peers could never even dream of. But I couldn’t believe in their ability to take a test written for students who do not have these learning difficulties and show the incredible knowledge they hold within their brains. It would have been more fair to believe in their ability to fly to the moon and back before recess.
I watched them struggle.
Fail.
Shut down.
Lose confidence that we had spent months carefully building.
All to prove something I could have told the district months earlier. My students weren’t there yet, but they were growing.
What the Data Missed
And what broke my heart wasn’t the testing itself. It was the realization that the district didn’t care about how far these kids had come. They didn’t care about the growth that really mattered.
They didn’t care that one child now walked into the building smiling rather than screaming. They didn’t care that a child who once struggled with identifying letters was now decoding CVC words. They didn’t care that a child who at one point couldn’t even write their own name was now penning independent paragraphs, complete with phonetic spelling.
They didn’t care who these children were becoming. They didn’t care that these enormous hurdles the children leapt over in their progress were ones that were critical to allowing academic learning to even begin to occur.
The only thing that mattered was whether they hit the “right” benchmark by the “right” date on the “right” test.
And that was the moment that I felt – maybe not consciously but deeply felt – that education, as I had known it, was slipping away.
Rising to Meet the Shift
Somewhere in those early years, even before the tightening expectations were fully felt, something else began happening too. It was something I didn’t recognize at the time as the beginning of hustle culture in education.
I was becoming known.
Teachers sought me out for help. New educators were assigned to me for mentoring. Veteran teachers stopped by my room for advice.
I earned the title of Lead Special Education Teacher at the school, and I wore it like a badge of honor – not because of the title itself, but because it meant I was making a difference. When I attended district mentor meetings, people would ask me what I was doing next, as though it was expected that my career would simply continue to rise.
And because the landscape around me felt like it was shifting, I thought the answer was to rise with it.
I got my reading endorsement – one of the best academic decisions I’d ever made. I learned not only how to neurotypical brain learns to read, but how to actually teach reading in a way that ignited joy. I felt energized again, refueled by the magic of literacy.
But underneath that glow, something was happening.
Pressure was building.
Comparisons were increasing.
Expectations were accelerating.
The more the district tightened the reins, the more I felt compelled to prove that I could handle it – that I could grow, move up, make a bigger impact. It’s part of what nudged me towards administration. Not because I wanted out of the classroom, but because I wanted to be the kind of leader my father had been – someone who protected his teachers, filtered the noise, and gave them room to teach with heart.
Standing at the Edge of Responsibility
I wasn’t running away from the changes happening in education. I was running toward responsibility, believing wholeheartedly that I could help shape it for the better. I believed that proximity to power meant protection – that I could buffer teachers from the noise, preserve what truly mattered, and create space for real learning to thrive.
What I didn’t yet understand was how heavy that responsibility would become... or how much it would ask of me in return.
This is Part 2 of the Unhustled Life education series. Part 1 describes what education used to be like. Part 3 will explore what happened when I stepped into leadership and what it cost me.
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Disclaimer: The reflections in this series are based entirely on my personal experience as an educator in a single school district. I cannot speak for every district, every school, every teacher. Education is vast and varied, and the journey I have experienced may or may not match what other educators have lived. My intent is not to generalize education or to critique individuals, schools, or districts, but rather to offer an honest look at how my own relationship with education has evolved over the last 23 years. It’s an honest reflection on how that evolution has impacted my career, my physical and mental well-being, and my future paths.
I share my story with respect, with care, and with such a deep appreciation for the educators who continue to do this critical work in every corner of the world.
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