Most people never go back to high school.

And I totally get it. In our culture, we focus a lot in therapy on childhood and home life—those early blueprints—but we skip right past the gauntlet of adolescence, as if those years weren’t formative. As if they weren’t wild and raw and awkward and crushing. As if they didn’t leave behind a thousand tiny threads still tethered to our souls.

But in a few weeks, I’m going back. Not as a student this time, but as a teacher. To the very campus where I once stood small and overwhelmed, holding everything inside. And I’ve realized lately: maybe the reason I felt called to return isn’t just professional. Maybe I’m being pulled back by the parts of me that never got the healing they needed.

There’s a version of me still roaming those halls—closeted, in love for the first time, heartbroken for the first time, never quite fitting in.

I couldn’t focus on school or even connect deeply with my peers, not with so many complicated emotions churning inside me—so much going unspoken. I wrote notes to my girlfriend during work time. In my AP classes, I felt like the dumbest of the smart kids.

And no one knew.

But then… there was this teacher.

I never even had a real conversation with him. He didn’t get on my case about sloppy handwriting or the fact that I Cliff’s Noted most of the assigned readings. He gave us choices. He made room for us as individuals. He introduced me to The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock, and somehow, I saw myself in it. He paused Cool Hand Luke to talk about rebellion, and I sat up straighter. He let me choose Salinger for an author study—and I did. No shortcuts. Catcher in the Rye was the first book I ever actually read cover to cover. Then Franny and Zooey, Nine Stories… and after that, something unlocked in me, and the rest came easier.

I think about him now. About Ms. Bowlin, too. The teachers who didn’t pry, but held space. Who made me feel like I could be myself—even if I didn’t know who that was yet.

And I think: how cool it would be to dab up my high school self and walk with her to class every day. We haven’t ever really hung out much, not with all the work I’ve been doing to heal other parts of my soul. But she’s ready now.

I want to hang my old letterman jacket in my classroom so she’s there with me. I remember growing up and seeing all the cool high schoolers in the community wearing theirs—like walking emblems of having made it.

When Teenage Jaime finally got hers, she felt like a total badass. Like, maybe for once, she belonged. I want her to feel that again—but this time, for something deeper than sports or status.

This time, because she’s got me in her corner.

Yesterday, my acupuncturist—the magical good witch healer that she is—told me I’m brave as shit. Said if she had to rank the scariest things ever, it’d be going to space, deep-sea diving, and returning to high school. She told me to write it on a sticky note: I’m brave as shit, and put it on my desk so I don’t forget.

And you know what? Since meditating on it, it feels way less scary than it did a few days ago. Maybe this isn’t my Odysseus homecoming moment like I thought. Maybe it’s not some grand character arc. Maybe it’s something quieter. A tending. A coming home to myself. A soul returning not to rewrite the past, but to finally walk through it without pretending.

This is about reclaiming something within myself—and finally walking into that space as I am, not who I thought I had to be.

I don’t think it’ll take long. Just a little presence, a little softness, a little trust.

Lately, I’ve been cracking open books and starting to plan curriculum—even though it’s still technically summer break. After accepting the position, I had moments of anxiety and restlessness I didn’t fully understand until a few days ago, after walking through it with Jen.

For months I’d felt steady, grounded, almost vibrationally aligned—and then suddenly, I didn’t. I felt unbalanced, like something had knocked me out of my own frequency.

And now I get it. My focus had been off. I was bracing myself. Little parts of Teenage Jaime had been resurfacing—worried about what everyone else would think, like I had something to prove.

But this isn’t about proving anything. It’s more personal than that. More internal.

This is about showing up fully, without the mask, without the performance—just me, as I am, finally enough.

I have the wisdom now to show up in that space and create something better. Not just for my students—but for the version of me who needed it all those years ago.

And I don’t have to tell my students any of this. I can honor Teenage Jaime just by creating a safe space for them. By not assuming who they are or what they need. By being consistent. Curious. A little bit rebellious. Like Mr. Litchfield. Like Ms. Bowlin. Giving them agency to read what lights them up. Creating opportunities for them to think deeply and feel fully—whether they ever say a word to me or not.

And when the work is done—when that teenage part of me finally exhales—I’ll let her go. I’ll release her from any pain she’s still carrying.

I don’t know what’s ahead. But I know this isn’t the end. This might be a new beginning—of something I’ve never done before, in a way I’ve never done it.

Maybe it’s not about rewriting the past, but finally walking through it with my whole self intact. With clarity. With compassion. With sleeves rolled up and a hall pass for my soul.

I’m not just returning to teach. I’m returning to witness. To honor. To heal.

And who knows—maybe the classroom I build now becomes the one I once needed.

That feels like enough of a reason to show up—and to keep unfolding on this journey, one brave step at a time.