So, I got a new job at my old high school.

That sentence still feels strange to type. Every day I walk the same halls where I once carried a backpack and wore socks with birkenstocks, but now I’ve got keys, lesson plans, way too many tabs open in my brain, and I wear my birkenstocks *without socks* on the weekends.

The work is no joke. After years of leaning on “tried and true” curriculum, I’m basically rebuilding two courses from scratch—except not really from scratch, because I’ve taught them before. It’s just that my old playbook doesn’t quite fit this new community of learners. And most of the books I used to rely on are already claimed by other classes here. So I’m reinventing, revising, and revamping. Which means: forgetting to eat, distracting myself from family routines, and working harder than I have since the pandemic.

But it also means: caring more than I have in a long time.

It’s been a trip seeing who pops up. I’ve bumped into a handful of former coworkers, my old softball coach, even my old vice principal (who strolled into a staff meeting like it was still 1995). Recognized a guy I worked with at the SDSU bookstore back in the day. Some folks who know my mom, some folks who know my old teachers. The niece of one of my middle school best friends is in my class—and she reminds me so much of Kelly it’s eerie. People from different chapters of my life are weaving back into this one.

And I’ve met a stellar team of English teachers. Some of us are brand-new to campus, others seasoned, but almost everyone seems genuinely enthusiastic about collaborating. That’s rare, and it feels like a gift.

My students are incredible. Receptive, friendly, already asking the best questions:

• “What advice would you give to someone who wants to drop a class because of self-doubt?”
• “How do I write about something traumatic in an engaging way?”
• “How do I build vocabulary to improve my writing?”
• “Should I read The Bell Jar?” (Yes. Always yes.)

It’s only week one, and I already know I’ve got a curious, brave bunch.

Of course, the assholes are alive and well. Standing in the hallway to greet my students today, a group of “those guys” walked by, and one tossed out, unprovoked: “That’s DEFINITELY a Subaru owner.”

High school Jaime would’ve snapped back with “You’ll DEFINITELY never have a girlfriend.”

But I’m an adult now, so I just let him keep walking, feeling like he really got me there…the universe has a funny way of humbling those guys without any help from me.

The culture war stuff trickles in, too. Kids emboldened in their ignorance, headlines about gay marriage on the chopping block. It all feels connected. And it makes the work of creating a space where students feel safe, seen, and encouraged that much more urgent.

Right now, I’m exhausted but committed. I know that if I put the work in now—late nights, messy drafts, endless adjustments—I’ll have a foundation I can use for years. I also know I need to remember balance, because this job can eat you whole if you let it.

But there’s something deeper happening here. Walking these halls as a teacher means facing down the ghosts of the teenager I used to be—weird, hopeful, a little lost—and showing her what became of all that fumbling and trying. It means meeting my students where they are while remembering where I was.

Maybe that’s why it feels so heavy and so important at the same time. Because I’m not just building curriculum; I’m building bridges—between who I was, who I am, and who I want to be in this role.

And maybe that’s the work worth staying tired for.