Lessons from a long-term substitute teacher

4/28/2025

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I am in limbo.

I finally found those words in Duluth, the week after I finished my temporary teaching contract. For days, they escaped me as I drifted through sequential hours of unstructured time. I was out of my rhythm due to an abrupt ending to my routine. In spite of the grueling nature of the past three and a half months, I grew dependent on the series of alarms on my phone and accustomed to the dynamic flow of the school day. The swift cut off from miscellaneous responsibilities and expectations felt like whiplash. I slammed the breaks after pushing my limits for so long. I can still feel the momentum pulsing through me.

Duluth is my charging station. I find peace in standing on the shore of Lake Superior and staring across the sparkling deep blue waves at the horizon. Here, I feel safe turning the page on another life transition. I understand the worth of standing still instead of constantly pursuing the next thing, next job, next chapter. It is time to regulate with friends, breathe in nature, and process the valuable lessons gained from another intense experience.

So, for a few days, it was ok to not see the other side. My priority was reconnecting with girlfriends who fill my cup through their bubbling laughter. I regained my words on couches with them and footing while collecting sea glass over large layered stones with them. I discovered how to describe my current liminal state, and with time, I strung words together to write out the following lessons.

Teaching brings out my best and worst

I am vulnerable when I teach. I put everything on the line in the challenging pursuit that my students feel safe, heard, and motivated to learn. I am one of those first-year teachers who put in the extra hours before and after school. I am still learning the curriculum when I teach it; there is not enough time to master everything when everything is novel. Teaching brings out the best in my dedication but the worst in perfectionism and self-blame.

There is a lot of pressure placed on teachers surrounding our students’ performance. We set weekly and daily objectives for our lessons, but what happens when many of our students do not meet them? Therefore, I naturally feel guilty when a student expresses frustration, boredom, or angst in reaction to a lesson. There is a limit on how far I can extend the enticing carrot of an engaging lesson. Ultimately, I cannot grovel in every mistake or failed lesson. The fluid schedule of a school day does not allow time to process what happened.

That’s why I often felt like I was hit by a truck after taking that first deep breath in the sanctuary of my Subaru. In that single silent moment, the weight of the emotions felt, behaviors de-escalated, and questions answered compound. When I finally stop, to return to being just Meghan, all that was put on the back burner came to the surface. Often, this would result in a smile melting from my face and a release of procrastinated disappointment and anger. Existing in a roaring storm of emotion, I was at my most vulnerable. I threatened to fall into rumination: a cycle of negative thinking.

I resumed therapy in March. Two months into my job, I recognized the dark path I was treading toward with my mental health. I became pessimistic and defeatist. I struggled to find the good in each day. On my lowest days, I lacked any energy to care for myself. I could not sleep due to penetrating anxiety. In therapy, however, I found a space where I was understood, not judged. I found a therapist who is cognizant of the education system’s influence on my rumination. I did not have to explain the intricacies of my job – she had lived them herself. Together, we built a foundation for healing.

I became a teacher to lead and learn from future generations. To teach, I must put my best foot forward with intention, positivity, and kindness to both myself and my students. However, I must cultivate boundaries and balance in life to know where to set my foot on the path forward to tomorrow. I am still a work in progress. That will never change. Now, however, I am a work in progress reconciling with my natural imperfections.

The only thing you can control as a teacher is your self-regulation

I had a healing conversation with my friend Katie this weekend. We block off one day every month for each other to talk, wander, knit, and drink coffee. Katie is a first-year teacher with wisdom and creativity beyond her years. She is unapologetic, matter-of-fact, and an exemplary leader. Every time we talk, I learn something new. I listen to how she reacts to similar situations I have lived in both in and outside the classroom. She is a center of calm in my life: the type of figure I hope to be for my students. In our most recent conversation, she advised, “The only thing you can control as a teacher is your self-regulation,” over her iced banana mocha.

Every day as a long-term substitute teacher, this statement proved to be more true. I noticed how my reactions and attitude affected the tone of the room. In tense situations, the first-graders often looked to my reaction to gauge their own. When I was internally agitated, exhausted, or dysregulated, I learned to remind myself to pause and take a deep breath. When I needed more, I led a class reset, where we all silently put our heads down for a few minutes, discussed what was happening and how we were feeling, or followed a calm-down GoNoodle video. I openly communicated my feelings and intentions to my students. Children appreciate honesty.

I am still learning how to hold space for emotions in the classroom – both my own and my students’. Cultivating a calm and safe classroom environment is always a work in progress, especially when I make 1,500 decisions every day. It is and will always be my priority. When I am calm, students are more likely to feel safe and vulnerable to explore both their ideas and emotions. Therefore, putting in the work and time to add to my self-regulation toolkit through therapy, friends’ and colleagues’ modeling, and self-care outside of work (e.g. running) are not only beneficial to my pedagogy but my long-term health and stamina.

Long-term substitute teaching is different than regular classroom teaching

I thought long-term subbing would act as an immersive practice before leading my own classroom. That is why I first applied. In my years of experience as a paraprofessional, student teacher, and English teaching assistant, I was on the sidelines. To learn to be a teacher, I just had to take the leap and just do it – like being a baby otter thrown into the stream for the first time. Despite my intuition, I did not learn to swim until I threw myself into the stream.

Long-term subbing differs widely from regular classroom teaching, but especially on the topic of preparation for the position. Classroom teachers receive training on the systems and curriculum they interact with before their position begins. There is a transition period during which they set up their classrooms, meet their colleagues, and familiarize themselves with materials.

As a long-term sub, on the other hand, I just started teaching. (To read more about the start of my contract, click HERE.) I received no training. Moreover, due to the unexpected early start of my contract, the planned lessons from the host teacher were, unfortunately, irrelevant. That was the nature of the job – picking up where the host teacher left off. It was intense to learn on the fly while planning lessons for large-group reading, writing, and math in a class I barely knew.

Suddenly, I was the leader and had to establish authority. The first few weeks were rocky. I heavily depended on co-workers for guidance and encouragement. They gave me a sense of direction and affirmed the abnormality of my position.

Another difference between classroom teaching and long-term subbing is the level of control the teacher has over the classroom. When my position began in January, routines and systems were already well established. Although I built my own classroom culture, I built on top of what already existed. The students followed routines and a set way of learning (any irregularities were immediately called to my attention).

There were many things that I wanted to change but could not due to my interim position. I often grappled with these restraints when a classroom system did not align with my style (e.g. placement of a small-group table). Nonetheless, I integrated my own systems where appropriate, including class rules, a calm-down corner, transition song, and attention getters.

Teach in community

Teaching fosters co-dependency among colleagues. I cannot be successful alone; I rely on a team of professionals for insight, guidance, input, and collaboration. I feel successful when I am learning from others and acting on a team working towards a collaborative goal. As a long-term substitute teacher, I taught in community from day one. Over time, I built trusting relationships with the interventionists across the hall and my next-door first-grade neighbors.

We fell into a rhythm of greeting one another. Shivering against the February wintry wind, we caught up on spring break plans at extra recess. During prep period, we poked our heads into each other’s workspaces to ask questions. On Wednesday mornings, we carried our desktops, coffee thermoses, and stacks of copies into weekly team meetings to review the curriculum for the following week.

I valued and depended on our regular communication to guide my lesson planning and gauge my performance. My colleagues invited me into their circle and recognized what I contributed to the space where I was a guest. They confided in me and in return, affirmed me and attentively listened. They humanized themselves with their vulnerability and honesty. By the end of my contract period, I not only met new role models but partnered with them. I trusted them to observe me and critique me because they respected me. I belonged with them.

In a profession dedicated to serving others, teachers are often not allowed to be human. Teaching in community is healing. It is a grounding, safe space to feel – to express frustration, confusion, and exhaustion when we are expected to smile through it all. It is a liberating platform to problem solve and admit, “I don’t know. I need help.” I find myself constantly circling back to my school community. They were the team that cheered me on as I grew into the teacher I now know I can become. I am forever grateful for their kindness, teachings, and encouragement.

I cannot discuss teaching in community without mentioning families. While a long-term substitute, I prioritized partnership with my students’ caregivers. From the beginning, I communicated regularly through texts, emails, and newsletters. I sent photos of the students from throughout the school day. And, eventually, I called families to report positive and negative behavior and collaboratively brainstorm management strategies. (I will admit, calling families was terrifying every time!).

“The family is the child’s first teacher” was a principle drilled into me in college. Although I didn’t know exactly how or what to communicate with families, my goal was clear: invite them in as a partner in their child’s education. My confidence strengthened over time until one day, communication was intuitive. From the beginning, many of the families reciprocated my invitation. I recognize that my relationships with this class’s families were uniquely positive and respectful. Therefore, I am even more grateful for the support, patience, kindness, and collaboration exemplified by the grownups I had the privilege of partnering with. I will miss the community we built together dearly.

. . .

“No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river, and he’s not the same man.” Heraclitus

Three weeks after returning from Duluth, I watched my best friend graduate from college. I listened intently to one of the commencement speakers, a wise professor and beekeeper, compare the journey of gaining and changing perspective to the superorganism of bees. “You are one, and you are many,” she preached softly over the crowd. Although her message was directed towards the graduates, I clung to every word. I remember the feeling of sitting in my robes on the hard folding chair viscerally – my heart pumping with adrenaline for the moment but fear for the future. It beat the same heavy rhythm as I gazed down at my Soph, my best friend, in the 7th row of black and maroon.

Something in Soph shifted as she crossed the stage – she crossed the bridge from student to alumni. She was not the same as the Soph that entered the University of Minnesota in the peak of COVID-19. She was one and she was many – an individual existing in the community she found on campus. Turning the tassel, she commenced an intimidating new chapter of infinite possibilities. I embraced her tightly after it was done, beaming with pride. We held onto each other as if it were for survival because now, we were both floating in limbo.

I am ready to look up and forward now. I regained my words in Duluth. I found my footing along the Black Sand Beach skipping rocks, disturbing the lake’s serene surface. Rest empowered the first steps to visualize the other side, the future. I applied for multiple jobs across the Twin Cities both in dual-language Spanish immersion and in public kindergarten centers. I hope these stones I threw will skip to the next steps: an interview, a new job. But until then, I will wait while commencing my summer adventures to Ireland, to my best friend’s wedding, and once more to the shore of Lake Superior to run my first half marathon.

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