Last week, the first Tuesday in April, after 31 days of writing in March, and I wasn’t ready to write. Right at the end of March, I was called in to be a substitute teacher in fourth grade for two weeks. I’ve had to heavily support other classrooms this year due to staffing issues. This classroom didn’t just need coverage, it needed rebuilding. The students needed to come back together as a community and relearn what it means to be a student.

It was hard. The kind of hard that makes you question everything you thought you knew. I was trained in the Responsive Classroom approach, grounded in the belief that relationships and community come first. But that first week shook me. I found myself wondering: Are classrooms different now? Are kids different now? Or am I missing something?

But I kept at it, holding high expectations, emphasizing routines, and trying to impact this students to want to be at school and put their best foot forward. Most mornings, I woke up and considered calling in sick. There were tears. There were moments I felt completely defeated. And there were colleagues who showed up-checking in, stepping in, reminding me I wasn’t alone.

As I got to know the students, I started to look more closely at the behaviors that frustrated me most, especially the apathy. Students gave up quickly when the reading felt heavy, when math required just a bit more thinking, or when expectations demanded even a small stretch.

So I went back to what I know by heart. Were their basic needs being met? Did they feel like they belonged? Did they feel significant? Were they experiencing any fun and joy?

For some, I began to realize, school simply felt hard.

There was one student in particular who challenged me more than the rest. Instead of pulling away, I leaned in. I began checking in with him during math, encouraging him to ask for help when he was stuck rather than wandering or acting out. I nudged him toward harder problems. I asked him to draw what he did know so he could begin to figure out what he didn’t. And when he pushed through, even just a little, I named it. “That feels good, doesn’t it?” I’d say, hoping he could feel the power in that moment.

On Friday, my last day before spring break, he raised his hand during math. I walked over, bracing myself for the usual deflection or distraction. Instead, he looked up and said, “Can you help me with this problem?”

I wanted to hug him. Instead, I smiled. “I’d be happy to.” I pulled up a chair beside him and looked at the work he had already started. And just like that, everything felt different.

I left those two weeks with more tear-free days, a little more steadiness, and a quiet but powerful reminder: knowing our students changes everything. It’s how community is built.

And it is still, absolutely, paramount.