This morning, as I closed my classroom door after Period 1 for my prep, I noticed my zipper was down… after teaching for an entire hour.

And yes, of course I was up in front of class writing on the board, pacing back and forth in front of my incredibly observant AP students who can spot the only typo on page three of a six-page document I typed up the night before.

And no, nobody mentioned it.

Years ago, that kind of thing would have undone me. My zipper being down was #2 on my personal list of classroom nightmares (Passing gas holds reign as #1). Back then, the zipper felt like the line between composure and humiliation. Zipped meant I was put together, safe. Unzipped meant I was exposed, flawed, laughable.

This morning, I shrugged. Whateve. Maybe none of my students noticed. Maybe all of them noticed and just stayed quiet. Should someone have told me? How would I have handled it? Would I ever have told one of my teachers in the same situation?

I thought back to junior high drama class, when our teacher’s faux leather pants split wide open, a jagged tear across her backside. Some kids laughed, others stayed frozen in silent negotiation, but one of my friends walked up and told her privately. She was horrified, but I was proud of my friend’s courage. At that age, I never would have known how to say it gracefully. I only knew what it felt like to be terrified of seams splitting in front of everyone.

And honestly, I’ve been trying to stay zipped up most of my life. Teachers, coaches, colleagues—all tugged at that zipper in their own ways.

I had a teacher who crossed out my entire future in my autobiography when I wrote about wanting to study the human brain, replacing it with: “You’d make a wonderful gym teacher.”

I had another who called on me constantly—not because I was brilliant, but because I felt she knew I wasn’t doing the reading and wanted to “catch” me.

My guidance counselor told me not to bother with a four-year college because with my straight-C average, I’d probably just fail out anyway.

In my honors classes, the smart kids rolled their eyes when I was assigned to their groups.

I even failed a marking period in 10th grade English because I couldn’t force myself to slog through The Scarlet Letter enough to pass the daily quizzes.

And then there was the “cool” teacher—the one everyone adored. He wasn’t even my teacher, but when he heard I was a writer, he asked to read my stuff. I went home, typed up every poem from my journal, printed it all, and handed it to him with trembling hands. Months later, when I asked for feedback, he returned the stack untouched. “It’s not really my style,” he said.

Each of those moments was like a little yank at the zipper, a reminder to keep myself tightly fastened. Don’t risk exposure. Don’t come undone. Don’t let anyone see you as less than.

And now here I am, back teaching at my old high school—the same halls where I spent years zipped up in shame and intimidation. And sometimes, without warning, that old baggage still flares. There are still people walking onto this campus carrying their own egos, and when I feel their sense of superiority, my zipper feels like it’s straining again, like I might get split open.

But something’s different now. I’m not comparing myself to them anymore. I’m finally meeting that younger version of me—the one who was terrified of being exposed—and I’m pouring love into her instead of judgment.

So my fuckin’ zipper was down. Big deal. Nothing unraveled. I didn’t lose credibility. I didn’t disappear. I was still standing, still teaching, still me.

Maybe that’s the real lesson: I spent so many years trying to keep myself zipped up—neat, hidden, acceptable—afraid of being exposed as not enough. But life keeps tugging at the zipper anyway. And the truth is, nothing breaks when it slips.

Maybe the point isn’t to stay zipped at all. Maybe it’s to let the zipper slide, to let air and light in, to risk exposure and discover you’re still whole. After decades of fighting to stay contained, I’m learning that being unzipped isn’t actually a failure.

It’s freedom.

Fuck it, this is ME.

Onward.