thoughts, musings, and the occasional deep dive
Posted on April 3, 2025
The realization came during a particularly chaotic Tuesday morning. I was simultaneously gulping coffee, responding to parent emails, and preparing materials for the day's science lesson. My third graders would be arriving in fifteen minutes, and my mind was already racing through a mental checklist that seemed to grow by the second.
Then I knocked over my coffee mug.
As I watched the brown liquid spread across my lesson plans, something shifted. Instead of the usual rush of frustration, I felt a strange clarity. This minor disaster was simply mirroring my internal state—scattered, hurried, spilling over.
That afternoon, I did something unprecedented: I set a timer for five minutes during recess and just sat. No grading, no planning, no scrolling. Just breathing and noticing. The classroom clock ticking. Children's laughter filtering through the window. The sensation of my feet on the floor.
Those five minutes changed everything.
I've since incorporated what I call "mindful moments" throughout my day, both at school and at home. Here's what I've discovered:
Slowing down doesn't mean doing less—it means being more present for what you're already doing. Whether I'm listening to a student explain their thinking, washing dishes, or planning curriculum, bringing full attention to the task transforms the experience.
Our brains need rest to function optimally. Those brief pauses between activities aren't wasted time—they're essential for processing, integrating, and preparing for what comes next. I've found that five mindful minutes often save twenty minutes of distracted work.
Children respond profoundly to a mindful presence. When I began bringing this quality of attention to my interactions with students, discipline issues decreased noticeably. They can sense when we're truly with them versus when we're mentally elsewhere.
Creativity flourishes in spaciousness. My most inspired teaching ideas now come during walks or moments of quiet reflection, not during frantic planning sessions. The same goes for my writing—it flows more easily when I approach it from a centered place.
Small practices yield significant results. Mindful breathing before responding to a challenging email. Feeling the sensation of water while washing hands. Noticing three beautiful things on the drive to work. These tiny interventions gradually rewire our default settings.
I'm still very much a beginner at this mindfulness journey, but I'm amazed at how it has rippled through every aspect of my life. My classroom management is more responsive and less reactive. My writing has more clarity and heart. Even my relationships feel more authentic.
The irony isn't lost on me that in our fast-paced world, slowing down might be the most revolutionary act of all. And in a profession like teaching, where burnout is endemic, these practices aren't luxuries—they're essential tools for sustainability.
I'll end with a question that guides me daily: What might happen if we approached our lives—our work, our creativity, our relationships—with less hurry and more presence?