My job is undoubtedly the biggest part of my life after Scripps, but I’ve found it nearly impossible to write about it until now. Why? Because I never know where to begin. And that’s not for a lack of trying. I have started this post over and over again, and I’ve had this conversation with many a coworker and TFA Corps member. When people ask me to tell them about my job, I can’t help but look them dead in the eye and think, “If only you knew what you just asked me to do.”

Being a teacher is—ahhh—I don’t even know how to explain it. It’s wonderful, it’s terrifying, it’s challenging, intimidating, unpredictable, fulfilling, frustrating, it makes me laugh and it makes me cry. It is the most important job I can ever imagine having. Every week at work I get to interact with my 126 amazing students. Every week at work I am responsible for taking a part in educating 126 young, absorbent, skeptical, trusting, forming minds who sometimes look at me as if I know all of the answers to all of the world’s questions. And it breaks my heart to know that I don’t. I don’t know everything, and as much as I would love to give them the magical answers to help them fix the frustrations of their lives, I’m not able to. I probably learn more than I teach everyday. Sometimes that learning comes in the form of research that I do to prepare for an upcoming lesson, sometimes that learning comes from having a conversation with a high school counselor about a student’s situation at home, sometimes that learning comes from my grad school homework, but most often that learning comes from my students, more often called my kids.

I adore my kids, and I’d also hope to think that most of them like me well enough. They range in age from 14 to 18. I teach 9^th graders, 11^th graders and 12^th graders. The difference between the freshmen and the seniors is sometimes staggering—enough to make me wish I had studied childhood and adolescent psychology as an undergraduate. One thing that many of them have in common though is that many of them have really difficult life situations, and that’s the most difficult part of my job: trying to figure out how to help a 14-year-old who reads at a 4^th grade level improve his literacy, or trying to interact with and teach a student who has a really difficult time maintaining focus because he or she can’t stop thinking about problems at home, or trying to motivate a kid to believe in himself because he thinks that no one else does. I could tell you stories about my kids, and I’m sure many teachers and my fellow TFA corps members could attest to this, that would simply break your heart. But I don’t think this is the proper forum to share with you the many trials and tribulations of my job as it relates to the realities my kids are faced with each day. That’s not what this job is about. This job is not about helping victims of a failed public education system. This job is about doing everything I possibly can while I am responsible for teaching these kids that will empower them with the tools they need to be successful in life.

I am challenged every day, I laugh every day, I learn every day, and I feel loved and appreciated every day, I can only hope that my kids can say the same.

Yesterday, I was having a crazy day. My personal life was in roller coaster mode and I was overwhelmed by the amount of work I have to do over winter break. Then, I unexpectedly received an email from one of my kids. (Since I do not want to violate my student’s privacy I will only paraphrase it.) It said something along the lines of this: “Wishing you the best of best with your family. Hope your new year comes with a lot of love and joy and that all of your wishes come true.” It’s things like this that really allow me to refocus, to remember that, yes, Nicole is important, but the kids that count on Ms. Guillen are the reason why I am doing this. They are the reason why I have devoted this time to teaching, to learning, or wracking my brain for ways to get my most challenging students invested in a lesson. They are the reason that I will continue to pop back up, dust myself off, wipe the tears away, and start going again every single time I fall. They are too important not to get back up.