Over the years, I’ve used this blog to document my life…sometimes with teaching stories, mostly with stories about my kids and family. Today I’m writing to preserve a moment in my professional career, being named our district’s Teacher of the Year. I’ve sat through many back-to-school convocations and stood to applaud over twenty past Teachers of the Year. There are many speeches I still remember, like Karrie’s where she emphasized the Responsive Classroom phrase, “I”m glad you came,” or Jen’s speech about an orange, or last year’s winner who made his classroom a place where all students felt significant. When I found out I was nominated, I never dreamed that I would be the one standing on stage, hoping to give a speech that would land in ways that stuck with my colleagues.

But that is exactly where I found myself this morning. Delivering a speech that lived in my brain and eventually on my computer screen all summer long. I started the speech writing process like any other writing I do, with a brain dump, letting the ideas living in my head find their way onto the page. After reading and revising for several days, I was ready to share it with my writing partner, Dawn. I asked what I always ask, “Is what I’m saying worth sharing?”

Usually, Dawn gives me some feedback, in what she calls her “chicken scratch.” We may talk through a few ideas, but mostly, I need her blessing to go public with my writing.

This was different. After reading my speech, Dawn gave me some feedback via text, but I asked if we could meet and talk it out in person. So she came to my house on a beautiful summer day, a chicken scratched draft in her hands. We read, revised, read aloud, and revised some more.

Three days before delivering the speech, Dawn said, “Something about the ending just isn’t right…I can say this to you in person. It’s soft.”

“But I’m soft,” I assured her.

“You’re not soft,” she said.

I agreed to work on the ending with her feedback in mind-a bit of panic settling in my belly, as I thought about what I’d have to do to get this right…I wanted to be done.

But, Dawn’s nudge was just what I needed to revise one last time.

The final result…a speech I felt proud of.

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I want to start by saying: I work with the best people.

And while I’ve poured myself into this district, I’ve felt every bit of that come back to me tenfold-mostly in the people I’ve met along the way. I am incredibly honored to be standing here today, and I know I’m not standing here alone.

Last week, I had the privilege of sharing the Responsive Classroom approach with teachers who are new to our elementary schools. As we reviewed the guiding principles that have become foundational to all that I do, I highlighted one of my favorites:

“How we work together as adults to create a safe, joyful, and inclusive school environment is as important as our individual contribution or competence.”

I believe that deeply.

This belief has shaped not only the way I work, but the person and teacher I have become.

My three daughters are now 14, 12, and 9. I spent most of my summer listening to them remind me how uncool I am and that they, of course, know much more about everything than I do.

A few years ago, my middle daughter, Adi, came home with an assignment to choose someone to study for a biography project. She was looking for someone whose life was interesting enough to spend some time learning about.

She was genuinely disappointed to discover that neither my husband nor I had done anything worthy of having a book written about us.

At one point, she looked at me and, with complete sincerity, asked, “What have you even done with your life?”

And honestly, I think about that question more than she probably realizes. It has made me think a lot about the person I was when I first became a teacher.

Because when I was 22, I probably thought a life worth studying was about accomplishments. About doing something important. About having a story that was big enough to write down.

Today, I think differently.

I think a meaningful life is built in the people we show up for, the people who shape us, and the people we have the privilege of helping shape.

How many of you remember having to write your philosophy of teaching at some point in your college career?

I remember staring at the page, knowing I wanted to inspire children and help shape good people, but struggling to put into words what I actually believed. My philosophy was mostly unwritten.

That’s how I entered Westport Public Schools in 2005: a brand-new teacher carrying more questions than answers, a blank slate waiting to be written on.

This year, as I begin my twenty-second year in Westport-half my life-I can proudly say that slate has been filled in, erased, revised, and rewritten more times than I can count, with the support and guidance of so many people in this room and so many who came before.

And if I’ve learned anything, it’s that teaching isn’t about having all the answers. It’s about being willing to learn, listen, and grow alongside others. What I now know for sure is this: teaching is an art.

And I am especially grateful for the Kings Highway and Saugatuck communities, who have filled blank spaces, added new colors to the canvas, and reminded me that the best work in education is created together.

The truth is, I couldn’t do the work I do without all of you.

Like any artist, we begin with a vision and the possibility of what might be. But the masterpiece is created by responding to what is in front of us.

Every day, our students hand us new colors, unexpected brushstrokes, and opportunities to begin again.

At my core, my mission has become simple: to make the world a little more beautiful.

For me, that begins with seeing people.

I believe every student wants to be seen-not just for who they are today, but for the possibility of who they might become.

After spending more than a decade as a literacy coach, I have come to realize that what is true for children is also true for adults.

Many years ago, a staff developer, Natalie Louis, was working with our team on implementing small-group instruction. She shared several goals for the work, but one has stayed with me.

At the top of her list was helping every child hear the message, “I see you.”

Then she paused and asked, “Isn’t that what we all want? For someone to say, ‘I see you’?”

I can still hear her voice asking that question because I realized she wasn’t just talking about children. She was talking about all of us.

That is the work I hope to do-for students and colleagues alike: to see people not only for who they are today, but for who they are becoming, and to create the conditions where that growth can happen.

Eleven years ago, when I interviewed for my role as a literacy coach, I told the committee that I had a dream about what schools could look like.

I imagined classrooms where curiosity drives both teaching and learning and where everyone is continually encouraged to outgrow themselves.

That dream still energizes me every morning.

This spring, I had the privilege of working alongside our fifth-grade team during their fantasy reading and writing units.

We didn’t simply hand students mentor texts and writing checklists. We became fantasy writers ourselves.

We filled notebooks with messy drafts, debated magical elements, and struggled through problems. We “messed around” before inviting students to join in the work.

That mattered because we weren’t just teaching students how to write fantasy. We were experiencing the work alongside them—making decisions, getting stuck, changing our minds, and trying again.

Through that process, something important happened: students weren’t just completing an assignment; they were becoming writers. And we were becoming better teachers, too.

The results were pretty amazing.

Students lined up after recess because they wanted more time to write. They carried books and ideas beyond the classroom.

One student asked if every fifth grader in the district was reading the same fantasy read-aloud because he wanted to discuss it with the kids on his baseball team.

I can only imagine those book talks happening in the dugout-the characters, the predictions, and the debates about what might happen next.

Those moments are easy to celebrate, but they are not accidents.

They are the result of a community of educators who believe that learning should be meaningful and joyful.

When we ourselves are thinkers, creators, and problem-solvers, teaching comes alive. Learning becomes more than something that happens at school. It becomes something students carry with them.

Two summers ago, while reviewing our climate survey data, we noticed that many students and parents reported that kids weren’t talking about their learning at home.

I couldn’t stop thinking about that.

I wanted our classrooms to create the kind of excitement that spilled into dinner conversations, car rides, and bedtime stories. I wanted learning to stay with students-not because they had to, but because they were genuinely curious, because they had something to say, and because they knew their voices mattered.

So we leaned into curiosity.

Last fall, many of our grade levels were immersed in nonfiction reading units. There was a palpable energy across the school.

The work we were doing in read-aloud was clearly transferring to students’ own reading. Our third graders became so invested that they wrote persuasive letters to our principal asking for more books. They created surveys to identify topics they wanted to explore.

This resulted in restocking all of our classroom libraries with nonfiction texts.

Students carried their learning home. They shared books and discoveries with their families-not because they had to, but because they wanted to.

Those are the moments that remind me why our work matters-and they’re also the moments that sustain us as educators. Someone stops by my room, sends a photo, or shares an anecdote in the hallway, and suddenly we find ourselves asking, “How do we create more moments like this?”

And this is where schools move from good to great-not because we have found a perfect formula, but because we are a community of learners who notice what is working, celebrate it together, and keep growing.

At our school, we often say, “We are all responsible for teaching all the children.”

Those words, shared by my friend Dawn Sherriff, have become more than a mantra. They have become a way of working.

Whether I am partnering with classroom teachers, supporting literacy instruction, or facilitating professional learning, I have learned that our best work happens together.

And maybe that is why, over the years, I have come to believe that the best teachers aren’t the ones who have perfected their craft.

They are the ones who remain open to becoming.

The ones willing to keep revising.

To keep listening.

To keep wondering.

To keep believing that every child-and every teacher-is capable of becoming more than they imagined.

Twenty-one years ago, I stared at a blank page and wondered what I believed.

I thought my job was to fill it in.

Now I understand that the page was never meant to be finished.

It keeps changing-with every student who surprises us, every colleague who challenges us, every question that makes us stop and wonder.

And maybe that is the best part.

We get to keep learning.

We get to keep revising.

We get to keep imagining what might be possible.

And then we get to go back and try.

To see differently.

To wonder.

To create.

When we work together, we nudge each other to keep asking, “What could be better?”

And maybe that’s how we make the world a little more beautiful.

Together.