My first year of teaching was not a total disaster, but it certainly wasn’t great. I had never worked so hard in my life while simultaneously feeling like an utter failure.

I was hired one week before school started. In that one week, I had to find a safe, affordable apartment in a new city, move into it, set up my classroom, and prepare for Back-to-School Night… which happened to be the first night of school.

While I had a degree in elementary education, that didn’t mean I was prepared for everything my first teaching job would demand. With my degree, I could have been hired to teach any subject in grades K–6. There was simply no way to be completely prepared for whatever classroom I walked into.

When I was hired to teach fifth grade, I had hoped to teach science and literature. Seniority won out, and I was assigned literature (yay!) and English (boo!). I also taught social studies, as did the other fifth-grade teacher.

The teacher who had taught my students before me was apparently phenomenal. I was new, and had no idea what I was doing.

I taught at an inner-city parochial school. I arrived around 6:30 every morning and didn’t leave until 5:30 in the evening, four days a week. Fridays were my early days, and I left right after school. At home, I graded papers, planned lessons, worried about my students, and wondered whether I was doing any of it right.

One of the things teachers are often taught is to start the year firm and gradually ease up as students learn your expectations and routines. I made the rookiest of all rookie mistakes and did the exact opposite.

I was way too lenient at the beginning of the year which inevitably created issues. My classroom became increasingly difficult to manage, and by the end of the year, I had to be much tougher than I ever wanted to be. Some of my students were downright angry with me. I can’t blame them either.

Even though I was struggling as a teacher, I deeply cared about my students.

I worried about them constantly.

One day, the weight of it all became too much. I went to my principal, Steve Padgett, and asked him, “How do I do this? How do I leave my students when I leave this building? I live in a studio apartment. I have no money. But I want to adopt some of my students because I know I could give them a loving home.”

His response was simple, “You have to do the best you can to take care of them while they are here. That’s all you can do.”

He was right.

That was one of the hardest lessons I ever learned as a teacher.

I wanted to protect my students from everything and wanted to make sure they were safe, loved, fed, encouraged, and given every opportunity to succeed even after they walked out of my classroom. But I couldn’t. I could only control what happened inside my classroom.

So, I did my best.

My students taught me far more than I ever taught them.

I still think about them. They are all adults now. It has been many years since I have taught in a classroom, but I still remember their faces, their personalities, their struggles, their laughter, and the moments that made me want to pull my hair out.

I was tough on them because I believed in their potential.

I tried to make learning fun whenever I could.

I wanted them to know that I expected a lot from them because I believed they were capable of a lot.

There are so many things I would do differently if I could go back.

I’m in my 40s now. I’m a mom. I’ve experienced more of life and have learned more about children, relationships, leadership, boundaries, and myself.

I would manage my classroom differently and would probably worry less about whether I was doing everything perfectly.

The one thing I would do exactly the same: I would love them and care about them enough to set high expectations.

I would care about who they were beyond their grades, worry about their well-being beyond the classroom, and would remind them of their potential. I would continue to believe that sometimes the most important thing a teacher can give a child isn’t a lesson plan, a grade, or even a perfectly managed classroom.

Sometimes, it is this: Someone who believes in you.

I wasn’t the best teacher my first year, but I loved my students.

Fortunately, I took the summer after my first year of teaching to regroup, to refine my lesson plans, and to set my students up for a better year my second year of teaching. Taking my summer to work on myself and my classroom made the next year go much better. If you have a first year teacher teaching your kids, I hope you extend some grace and compassion. Maybe you could even encourage them. I still remember the families who did that for me.