The Uncertainty That Wouldn't Let Go

I didn't know exactly what the next school year would look like. That was the hardest part. Not knowing. Sitting with the not-knowing all summer, feeling it get heavier instead of lighter.

I had loved teaching. I want to say that clearly, because it's true and it matters — I loved my students, I loved my coworkers, I loved the particular chaos and joy of a classroom full of kids. But loving something doesn't mean it's not costing you more than you have left to give. And by the end of that year, I didn't have another year like it left in me.

Telling My Husband

When I first told my husband I wanted to leave teaching and homeschool our kids, he wasn't sold. He wasn't against me — he was against uprooting our daughters, who were thriving in public school in their own way. And honestly, I understood that. It wasn't a small thing I was asking.

We landed somewhere in the middle, which is often where the real leaps of faith actually happen — not in the all-or-nothing moment, but in the "let's give this a shot" moment. Our youngest son would start homeschooling. Our oldest two daughters would stay in public school. It wasn't the whole leap. It was a leap. And it was enough to start.

My family, on the other hand, was fully behind me from the beginning. They were excited. They saw this as an adventure, not a risk. And near the end of that school year, a few of my fellow teachers stopped by my room, one at a time, to tell me they loved what I was doing. A couple of them told me they wished they could do something similar themselves. I've held onto that. It told me something in me wasn't crazy — it was just early.

What I Was Actually Afraid Of

I want to be honest about the fear, because I think too many of these stories skip past it.

I was afraid of losing a guaranteed paycheck. Teaching gave us something steady, something we could count on every two weeks, and walking away from that felt like walking off a ledge without knowing what was underneath. I remember sitting at my desk in my classroom — my actual teacher desk, grading papers or planning lessons like any other day — and texting a former boss of mine, who owned a local restaurant I used to waitress at years earlier, asking if he'd take me back part-time. Just in case. Just to soften the fall.

That's what a leap of faith actually looks like sometimes. It's not blind. It's texting your old boss about waitressing shifts while you figure out whether the thing in your heart is worth the risk to your bank account.

I was also afraid of what people in my community would think. Homeschooling wasn't common where we live. It still isn't, really. I knew I'd be doing something unfamiliar in a place where unfamiliar things get noticed — and sometimes judged.

The Last Time I Looked Around That Room

When I finally packed up my classroom for the last time, I remember standing in the doorway after it was empty, looking around at the space I'd filled with thirteen years of memories. All the kids who had sat in those seats. All the lessons, the inside jokes, the mess, the mornings I didn't think I'd make it to lunch and somehow did anyway.

It was sad. I want to say that plainly, because it was. Leaving something you love, even for something you believe in more, still costs you something. I grieved that room. I still think about it.

Starting Over — Together

I didn't start homeschooling alone at my kitchen table. I started at a homeschool co-op, teaching alongside my friend Mandi, with a small group of wonderful kids who became our first "class" in this new life. We called it Lighthouse Learning.

One of the things I didn't expect was how fun it would be to pick out curriculum. If you've never shopped for homeschool curriculum, I don't know how to explain it except to say — there is so much of it, and so much of it is beautiful. Genuinely engaging, thoughtfully made, nothing like the worksheets I remembered from my own childhood. Every time a box arrived in the mail, it felt like Christmas morning. I'd open it at the kitchen table and feel that same spark I used to feel walking into my classroom in August, except this time it was for my own kids, and for kids I got to keep choosing to teach.

That feeling told me something too: I wasn't just running from something. I was running toward something.

The Verse We Built Lighthouse Learning On

From the very beginning, one verse anchored everything Mandi and I were building:

"Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it." — Proverbs 22:6

We still put it in our newsletters. We still say it to each other on hard days. It's not just a nice verse to us — it's the whole reason any of this matters. We aren't just teaching kids to read and do math. We're trying to plant something in them that lasts long after they leave our co-op, long after they leave our homes.

Looking Back

I'm grateful for my years in public school. I mean that. I became a good teacher there. I made some of my closest friends there. I got to know hundreds of kids and their families, and that time shaped me in ways I still carry into homeschooling today.

But if I'm honest — and I want to be honest with you, because I think you deserve that if you're standing where I once stood — I do have one regret. I wish I had started homeschooling all of my kids from the beginning. I wish I had spent those early years pouring everything into just my own family instead of splitting myself between my classroom and my home.

My two oldest daughters are grown now. They've moved out. They're off at college, building their own lives. And I look back and wish I'd had more of their childhood years to actually be with them, not just present for the after-school hour before homework and dinner and bed.

That's not a guilt trip, for me or for you. It's just the truest thing I know to say. Time with your kids is the one thing you can't waitress your way back into.

If You're Standing Where I Was

If you're sitting in that same uncertainty right now — not sure if you can do another year the way things are, not sure your husband is fully on board yet, not sure how you'll make the money work, not sure what people in your town will think of you — I want you to know something.

You don't need the whole leap figured out. I didn't take the whole leap either. I took one leap, for one son, and let the rest unfold from there.

You just need to take the next one.