A Love Letter to the Educators Who Will Guide My Grandchild
For the very first time, my grandson will walk into a public preschool classroom next week. He is three and a half, still learning how to form certain sounds, still convinced that dinosaurs are real, and still offering hugs to everyone without hesitation. He is joyful and innocent and loving, and I am feeling the significance of that in a way I did not expect.
When my own children started preschool, I was so excited. I was ready for them to begin their journey and I made it through those first days without a sniffle. But the decades have changed the way I see this moment with my grandson. I have spent so many years inside classrooms and hallways, watching the incredible things that happen when children feel safe and supported, and also witnessing the strain that settles in when the system stretches people too thin. I have seen the joy and the magic, but I have also seen the exhaustion and the emotional weight that teachers and leaders carry every day.
So this beginning feels different.
This letter is not a criticism of schools or teachers or families. It is a message from someone who has lived this work and understands its complexity, written to the educators and leaders who will soon become part of my grandson’s world over the next 15 years. It carries all the hope I felt as a young mother, but it is layered now with the understanding that comes from a lifetime spent in schools, seeing both the beauty and the challenges up close. And? It should blow ALL of our minds that he will graduate in the year 2040!!!
You know better than anyone that he is not simply a name on a roster. He is not just a data point. He is more than the score on any test. He is a developing little human who will sprint into your school with a backpack that looks too big and a heart that is wide open. He will bring curiosity, unpredictability, and the kind of innocence that reminds us why early childhood education matters so much.
Teachers, I know what you are asked to carry. I know the demands that stretch far beyond instruction. I know the emotional labor that is rarely acknowledged. I know the constant balancing act between meeting individual needs and meeting institutional expectations. I know the quiet moments when you wonder if you are doing enough, even when you are doing more than anyone can see.
Leaders, I know the weight you carry as well. I know the pressure to protect staff while also meeting mandates. I know the challenge of creating a school culture that feels safe and steady when the world outside challenges that ideal. I know the responsibility of making decisions that affect hundreds of children and adults, often with incomplete information and limited time. I know the invisible work that keeps a school functioning even when no one is watching.
And because I know all of this, I am asking for something that feels both simple and enormous.
Please see him. Please protect his joy. Please help him stay curious. Please let him be little for as long as he can. I am not asking for perfection. I am asking for presence. I am asking for the kind of care that comes from educators and leaders who understand the power they hold in shaping a child’s sense of self and belonging.
Our little guy does not have dreams yet. Not really. But he will. And when he does, I hope he is surrounded by adults who help him explore them, question them, and grow into them. I hope he finds teachers who help him feel safe enough to take risks and supported enough to recover when he stumbles. I hope he finds leaders who create environments where teachers can thrive, because children thrive when the adults around them are supported and valued.
Thank you, in advance, for being part of his story. Thank you for choosing this work, even when it feels overwhelming. Thank you for creating spaces where children can learn how to be in the world.
And thank you for helping me trust that the joyful, innocent, loving little boy I adore will be healthy, safe, engaged, supported and challenged.
You’re gonna love this kid. 💙
