A reflection from the heart of a special education teacher

My purpose is simple, but sacred: to make the world a better place by starting with my own children and extending that love and care to the students I serve, especially those in special education.

I want every child to know they are seen. That they are heard. That no matter how difficult or confusing life gets, they are never, ever alone.

In my work, I teach advocacy, not just as a concept, but as a living, breathing practice. I teach that feelings matter. That their voice holds weight. That it’s okay to ask for what they need and to believe they’re worthy of receiving it.

Yesterday reminded me just how vital that is.

One of my second graders, who’s been receiving services with me for over a year, had a breakdown. Not a minor one either, the kind that stops everything in its tracks. I had never seen him shut down like that before. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t regroup, and nothing I tried seemed to help.

At first, I felt that creeping frustration, the familiar pull to fix the moment. But something in me paused. I took a breath and remembered: this wasn’t about me.

He kept repeating the same scenario over and over, and honestly, it didn’t make much sense. But that wasn’t the point. He needed space. Space to feel whatever had followed him into the building that morning. Space to be confused, to be upset, to not be okay.

And maybe most of all, space to be held with compassion instead of control.

I stayed with him in that space. Still, I could feel it: he needed more. So I reached out to his father, who works at our school. When his dad came, something shifted. After a few more tantrums and a lot of patience, the child was finally able to speak his truth. His dad listened, really listened, and understood what had happened.

Then came the part that still brings a lump to my throat. They hugged. They reset.

That moment was sacred. A turning point.

Afterward, I walked my student back to class, made sure he had something to eat, and gave him the time he needed to ease back into his day. It wasn’t a dramatic gesture. Just care. Presence. A small act of love that met him where he was.

And yes, a snack. Sometimes it really is that simple.

As teachers, we know there’s never enough time in the day to give space to every child the way we wish we could. For many, it can feel difficult or inconvenient, to stop the clock for just one student, especially when we’ve carefully planned out our day. But that’s what I strive to do most.

My students, even though I see only a few at a time and often work one-on-one, know they can count on me to make space in my day, no matter what plans or assignments are on the agenda. Because yes, academics are important. But we all have bad days. We all need someone to see us, especially when we’re struggling.

This is why I do what I do. Because even the tiniest people deserve to be treated fairly. Their feelings aren’t too small. Their stories aren’t too silly. They are full, complex human beings, and they matter.

Always.

Making the world a better place, one soul at a time, isn’t an instant process. It’s slow, sacred work. It might take my entire lifetime. And that’s exactly why it gives me direction.

I can’t say there’s just one quote I live by. Each day brings its own lessons, and with that, different words tend to rise to the surface. But there are a few that consistently resonate with me.

One is “A day without laughter is a day wasted.” It’s a simple reminder that joy is essential, even in the most challenging moments.

Another is something someone I deeply respect once said: “Don’t ever let anyone tell you who you are. Define yourself.” That one has helped anchor me more than once.

Then there are the sayings that come with life’s harder-earned wisdom. “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.” And of course, “A leopard never changes its spots” and “If it quacks like a duck, it’s a duck.” Those help me keep my discernment sharp and my boundaries clear.

So while I may not live by just one quote, I live by the truths that find me when I need them most.

Returning home from college in New York to Florida, I found myself without a car. My parents had recently purchased a sleek new sports car, making it clear I was not to drive it-ever. However, when they couldn’t pick up my younger sister from school due to work commitments, they surprised me: “Take the new car; the keys are on the hook by the laundry door.”

I seized the opportunity, feeling exhilarated as I slid into the driver’s seat, the new car smell enveloping me, Aerosmith’s “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing” blaring through the speakers. I felt like a rockstar, navigating the roads with newfound confidence.

As I approached the intersection near my sister’s school, a sudden crash jolted me from my reverie. To my left, a red Acura had been T-boned, metal crumpling like tin foil, the windshield shattering, airbags deploying. Time seemed to slow as I locked eyes with the driver, his fear mirroring my own.

Instinct urged me to help, to rush to his aid. My hand reached for the door handle, but my parents’ strict instructions echoed in my mind: no detours, no stops. Paralyzed by indecision, I remained in the car as others rushed to assist. The light turned green, and I drove on, tears streaming down my face, whispering, “Thank you, God,” that others had acted.

The guilt lingered. I grappled with the realization that I had prioritized obedience over compassion. Reflecting on that moment, I recognized the importance of listening to my moral compass, even when it conflicts with authority. Since then, I’ve vowed to act when others are in need, a promise I’ve kept.

This experience taught me the profound impact of inaction. While I adhered to my parents’ rules, I neglected a deeper responsibility to assist someone in distress. I’ve learned that true integrity involves making difficult choices, sometimes challenging authority to do what’s right. Moving forward, I strive to align my actions with my values, ensuring I won’t let fear or obedience prevent me from helping others.

What makes me nervous?

Dark entities and haunted places.

Not because I don’t understand them, but because I do. I can feel when energy shifts, when something unseen presses in, watching from just beyond the veil. I don’t fear them, but I respect them deeply.

That nervousness comes from knowing how real it is-how quickly something uninvited can cling if you’re not clear, protected, or spiritually anchored.

But I navigate that nervousness with truth.

With light.

With discernment and boundaries that are energetic and sacred.

I don’t run from the dark.

But I don’t invite it in either.

I just stand firm in the light I carry and let that be enough.

I suppose it depends on how one defines “demanding.” For me, a demanding day isn’t just busy—it’s the kind of day that feels selfless, nonstop, and often unexpected. Or it could be one of those quieter battles, where nothing I do feels quite good enough.

The truth is, I’ve learned—often the hard way—to slow down. These days, the truly nonstop ones are rare, because my body has become my greatest teacher. It will speak up with a migraine or a sore back, nudging (or forcing) me to rest.

But sometimes life calls, and I answer. A friend ends up in the hospital, a child needs me, or I’m simply required in ways I didn’t plan for. On those days, adrenaline carries me, and so does something deeper—my connection to the divine sharpens. I move through it all with grace, until the crash comes. And it always comes.

When that wave passes, I unwind by slipping into spaces with zero stimulation—my bedroom, or outside where the only sounds are my own breath, the hum of the air conditioner, the birds. Sometimes, it’s a warm bath or a full glass of red wine.

So, how do I unwind? It depends on the day. But however it happens, it’s always an act of returning to me.

How I Use Social Media

I’ve removed myself from traditional social media platforms like Facebook and Instagram. For me, the “Facebook life” became redundant—daily diaries and curated photo reels no longer felt genuine. Anyone can pose for a photo, smile on cue, and choose the one image they’re willing to present to the world. But where do we draw the line when even our children, our friends’ children, and our most intimate moments become content?

The grandeur wore off a long time ago.

During the uncertainty of COVID, I turned to TikTok—not for attention, but to uplift others. I began posting videos of encouragement and offering free psychic medium readings. For a time, I became popular. But again, I was met with a familiar pattern: takers, energy vampires, and performative engagement that left little room for true connection.

Now, I still use TikTok, but only passively—for entertainment, not for socializing.

Where I’ve truly returned is to writing. This isn’t about likes or algorithms—it’s about reflection, storytelling, and message-bearing. I write to entertain, to uplift, and to witness what’s real. It feels more like a return to sacred ground than a step into a digital space.

Social media, for me, is no longer a stage. It’s a quiet observation deck, and sometimes, a place to gently place a piece of truth and walk away.

Each day greets me differently.

Some arrive with light—

a milestone met, a glimpse of purpose,

a moment where I feel aligned, steady, seen.

And then there are the quieter days.

Where joy slips behind the clouds

and I can’t quite name the ache—

only that it’s real,

and that it asks to be honored, too.

Why do we expect so much from ourselves?

Who taught us that being human wasn’t enough?

That we must become more—

do more, give more, rise higher

even when our spirit just wants rest?

I used to say expectation is the seed of disappointment.

And maybe that’s true.

But what is life without the hope of fulfillment?

Without the sacred ache to feel met—

not just by others,

but by our own hearts?

I know now: no one can fill what only the soul is meant to carry.

But still,

I long to receive what I so freely give.

So today, I choose grace.

Soft, unrushed, tender grace.

I give myself permission to simply be—

and I offer the same to you.

You don’t need to earn rest.

You don’t need to be more.

You’re already here.

That’s enough for today.

.

There was a time I believed I had to carry everything alone. That strength meant managing the weight of the world quietly, especially as a new mother. But one moment, tucked in the middle of an ordinary day, cracked that belief wide open and let the light in.

My daughter was six months old, her stroller my steady anchor as I navigated the maze of a crowded mall. I remember feeling proud, strong, even as we approached the steep escalator. With careful confidence, I stepped on, balancing her and the stroller, riding down with a quiet sense of victory.

But at the bottom, something went wrong. The wheels caught. The stroller jammed. And in an instant, my pride turned into panic. I felt the world tilt beneath me. We were about to fall.

That’s when it happened.

Our eyes met, mine wide with fear, his calm and unwavering. A stranger, modest in size, but filled with something greater than muscle. Without hesitation, he rushed forward and, with astonishing ease, lifted me, the stroller, and my baby, all at once.

It felt like time slowed. Like we’d stepped into some still, sacred place in the middle of the noise.

I was stunned. Grateful beyond words. I turned to thank him again, to lock eyes with the man who had just saved us. But he was gone.

No trace. No name. Just gone.

For a moment, I stood there in silence, heart pounding, soul stirred. And something inside me shifted.

It was as if God had whispered through that man’s hands: You are not alone. You have never been alone.

I think of him often, not just the way he helped, but the way he appeared in perfect timing, like grace itself had stepped in wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Was he an angel? I’ll never know for sure. But I do know this:

Some souls walk this earth as messengers. They show up in the exact moment we forget we’re held. They remind us that the divine isn’t always thunder and fire, it’s sometimes the quiet strength of a stranger who sees your fear and answers it with love.

Since that day, I’ve come to believe that we are guided, surrounded, and deeply connected, even when we can’t see it. And that maybe, just maybe, heaven sometimes walks beside us in human form, lifting us up when we forget how to stand.