finding courage in the little moments: emma's journey

finding my footing while she found hers

The public education world has shaped so much of my professional life, but nothing reshaped me quite like watching my daughter walk into kindergarten for the first time. This year has been big and scary and stretching for both of us, in ways I never expected, and in ways I thought I was prepared for… because I work with schools and districts every day. And because I used to work in them myself, including Franklin County Schools, the same district Emma now calls home.

Turns out, being a single mom in the kindergarten drop-off line hits different.

the invisible curriculum of “new”

The first couple months were… a lot.

Not academically (she loved learning) but emotionally. Kindergarten has a whole invisible curriculum kids have to master: bathrooms they’ve never used, buildings that feel huge, drills that make no sense to their little nervous systems.

Emma had never used a bathroom stall alone. It had never occurred to me that the stall door would be an actual fear:

“What if I get locked in and the class leaves me?”

It was one of those moments that makes you realize how big school can feel to someone so small.

Her teacher (bless her) pulled her out of enrichment one day and practiced stall doors with her, as if it were a specialized intervention. Open. Close. Lock. Unlock. Repeat. That moment of tenderness still gets me.

And then came the fire drills. And “stranger” drills. Try answering a kindergartener who’s asking why someone might want to hurt their school. There’s no script for that.



For about a month, she cried every morning and every night. And I stayed steady on the outside, even when my own worry loop was running nonstop: Will she make it from the car to her classroom? Will she feel safe today? Am I doing this right?

and then, slowly, she bloomed

Somewhere between the practiced bathroom doors and the morning routines and her teacher’s patient presence… Emma started to settle.

The tears faded.
Her confidence unfurled.

And then something shifted. All that hard work, all those sounds and letters and practice pages started clicking. She can read.

She loves reading.
She loves school.
She walks in with excitement.



And my heart, which spent weeks clenched, finally exhaled.

the ambush none of us saw coming



In November, during her school’s monthly Ambush celebration, Emma was named Student of the Month. My girl hardly ever misses school, but the kindergarten germs got her that morning. Still, her teacher made sure she didn’t miss the moment. She recorded the announcement, read the nomination aloud to the school, and sent the certificate and medal home so Emma could experience the whole celebration.

When Emma watched the video, her joy was immediate and unfiltered. And once that medal was in her hands, she wore it everywhere all weekend. She earned every bit of that shine.

what this year taught me (as a mom and an education person)

I’ve spent years helping districts build systems that nurture belonging, clarity, identity, courage: the things that make school feel safe.

This year reminded me that for families, those systems aren’t abstract. They’re personal. They’re emotional. They’re the difference between a child who cries at drop-off and a child who reads her first book at bedtime with a smile big enough to split her face.

Schools don’t just teach kids. They carry them. And sometimes they carry the grown-ups, too.

And behind every communication plan, every system, every “house point,” ritual, or celebration… a real kid is learning to be brave, and a real parent is trying to look brave enough for both of them.