My Local Newspaper

Check it out! I recently wrote a piece for my local newspaper not as the Mad Preschool Teacher, but simply as the reputable preschool teacher who has been running a small community preschool for the last thirty years. Athough not named the “mad” is there. It felt surprisingly good and uplifting to write without that part attached to my name. There’s a certain emotional weight that comes with the honesty and vulnerability of writing here on Substack. It has been healthy, therapeutic, and genuinely helpful as I continue working with the language of this relatively new story that makes so much more sense to me than the old one ever did.

I also don’t think I could be doing this without the small circle of friends, family, and longtime community members quietly reading along here. There is something deeply healing about being witnessed by people who know you beyond your hardest moments. I’m increasingly aware of how important community, reflection, and compassionate witness are when trying to make meaning out of difficult human experiences.

Writing this newspaper piece reminded me that maybe this space here is not the final destination, but an important step along the way. A place to practice language. A place to slowly reclaim and reshape my understanding of what my experiences actually mean to me before bringing that conversation more fully into my wider community.

I’m also becoming aware that when I eventually do share the fuller story more publicly within my community, it may gently challenge some long held assumptions people carry about bipolar, madness, and mental health. It becomes harder to reduce people to labels when the person attached to those labels is someone you have known, trusted, and respected for decades. In some ways, that realization feels quietly healing to me as well.

After sharing the article and absorbing all the positive feedback from people in my town, I can feel something shifting. The “coming out” part of this journey suddenly feels much closer than it once did. Right now, I feel genuinely seen, held, and encouraged by my community in a way that softens some very old fears I’ve carried for a long time.

And perhaps my subconscious is at work here too. Maybe writing a gentle preschool reflection for the local paper was also a way of preparing the ground for when I eventually decide to share the fuller story. Maybe there are a few more sweet preschool essays still to come before the larger piece finally arrives — the one I’ve already written a thousand times in my head about community mental health, how we show up for one another in times of crisis, and the ways we choose to understand this thing we call madness.

Here’s the piece from my local paper:

As I approach my 30th year with the preschool, I’m struck by how different this work turned out to be from what I once imagined. I didn’t enter early childhood education because I had a clear philosophy or a plan to shape young minds. What I thought would be a fulfilling career path became a long, humbling education of its own.

For three decades, children from this community have arrived each morning with open hearts, a unique creative spark and an eagerness to be known in relationship. Somewhere along the way, I realized I wasn’t here only because I had something to offer. I was also here because I had important things to learn.

Early on, I assumed teaching young children would mostly be about what I brought to them through structure and guidance. Over time, the work kept asking something else of me. When I began to see myself as the student as much as the teacher, something unexpected happened. The children became easier to be with. I began to understand that children respond differently when they know they are not just being taught, but taken seriously as contributors to a shared community.

Somewhere along the way, I came to see that essential human knowledge and wisdom are already there, and often more present in children than in adults. What I was recognizing in them was something I had lost touch with in myself. My role slowly shifted from teacher to guide, helping children stay connected to and trust these inborn, heart-centered ways of being, while I began the work of relearning how to do the same.

This shift changed how I came to understand children’s behavior. I learned that many of the challenges adults worry about are not signs of dysfunction, but signs of disconnection from something already alive inside the child. When children feel they belong, know their presence matters and are invited to help shape the life of the group rather than simply comply with it, much of what looks like defiance fades.

One of the clearest places this shows up is in imaginative play. I’ve learned that uninterrupted group play is not a break from learning. It is where the real work happens. In play, children process fear, negotiate power, explore identity and practice cooperation. When children don’t have enough space for this kind of play, unmet needs often surface through behavior. In my experience, when children are given time and freedom to play deeply, with thoughtful guidance, most behavioral challenges disappear.

Following the children rather than forcing a fixed program slowly changed the nature of the school itself. It became something almost tribal, a place where learning how to live well together mattered more than meeting external expectations. Creative expression and imagination were treated as essential, not optional. Community values and the practice of belonging became central to how we learned and grew together.

But the most challenging work wasn’t happening in the children. It was happening in me. Being with young children day after day required a level of presence I couldn’t fake. They sensed immediately when I was distracted, guarded or performing a role, and when I wasn’t truly seeing them for who they were and what they genuinely needed. In responding to them honestly, I found myself returning to parts of my own childhood that had gone quiet: creativity, playfulness, curiosity, emotional truth and my own need for genuine connection.

A deeper, lifelong internal journey began for me. As I reclaimed those parts, my presence expanded and the children responded. With that shift came a greater sense of safety and ease within the school.

I now believe that presence and connection, not curriculum or technique, are the foundation of a thriving learning community. There is a place children are always waiting to see if we will join them. The poet Rumi describes it as a field beyond right and wrong, a place I often imagine when we are fully locked in together. That presence emerged for me through a long process of learning, unlearning and being guided by the children themselves.

Looking back, the gifts I’ve received from this work feel far greater than anything I may have offered along the way. It shaped the person I am today, and I wouldn’t trade that education for anything.

To the children, families and wider community who have trusted me with this work over the years, thank you. It has been, and continues to be, an extraordinary gift.