Guest article by Jill Drum
A few years ago I began planning my retirement after 31 years in the classroom. This June marks the end of that span, and as the date approaches, I find myself both excited and anxious. Teaching has shaped my identity so completely that it’s hard to imagine life without it. Even when I’m not at school, I’m still a teacher: clipping articles to share with students, collecting souvenirs like Grand Canyon geodes to bring back and crack open with curious hands, always looking for ways to turn the world into a lesson.
Who will I be when I stop teaching full time, and what will I do with the experience and passion I’ve accumulated? From as early as I can remember, I wanted to be an educator. “Want to play school?” was my favorite invitation, and I always took the role of teacher. If I couldn’t recruit friends, I lined up dolls or stuffed animals as my audience and even made spelling tests—complete with intentional misspellings—so I would have papers to grade. That eager impulse to create learning experiences never left me.
My own schooling was not always encouraging. Eight years in a parochial elementary school during the late 1960s produced a degree of anxiety and genuine school phobia. Those harsh stories you hear about strict classrooms were, sadly, often true. When I reached public high school, I vowed to become the kind of teacher I would have wanted as a child—someone who would make students feel safe, capable, and inspired.
When I started college in the 1970s, education jobs seemed scarce and students were discouraged from majoring in teaching. I followed my other passion—writing and literature—but a single moment changed my path. In a poetry workshop, a classmate read poems written by fourth graders he was working with during his student teaching. I remember the chill that ran down my spine: seeing what meaningful learning could look like and how much students could create under the right guidance. That afternoon I met with my advisor and added education as a major, embarking on the career that would define my life.
Throughout my career I’ve worked to foster a love of learning in my students and in myself. My master’s degree opened the opportunity to study abroad and student-teach in the suburbs of London. There I discovered how drama and performance can bring curriculum to life, engaging students in ways that textbooks alone cannot. I continue to use those techniques; my classroom is still alive with performance, role play, and storytelling to deepen understanding.
Becoming a parent further shaped my professional path. Raising two children—one of whom is on the autism spectrum—led me to pursue a degree in Special Education with a focus on Autism Spectrum Disorders. That training improved my ability to support my own son and helped me better serve students with disabilities in my classroom. It also reinforced a simple truth I often share with colleagues: students may not always remember every fact we teach, but they never forget how we made them feel.
In recent years the education landscape shifted with the rise of Common Core standards and an increased emphasis on high-stakes testing. These changes affected classroom practice and teacher evaluations. In response, I became an active member of my union and a grassroots advocate, lobbying legislators for sound educational policy. Those efforts have not been in vain: moratoriums on some evaluation systems like APPR were secured, and our organizing helped elect pro-education candidates. There is still much work to do, but these victories show what collective action can accomplish.
One small but meaningful measure of a teacher’s life came up in the hallway the other day. A fifth grader overheard colleagues discussing retirement and asked me point-blank if I planned to retire. Unsure, I answered honestly. Her reply—uttered by a child who had seen the ripple effect of teaching over generations—was, “You are an awesome teacher, but when you start having children of students you once had, it’s time.” She and another boy in my class happen to fit that description, and her comment stuck with me: more than seven hundred lives crossed my path over three decades, each one a chance to make a difference.
As I explore what comes next, I know one thing for certain: I will miss the daily rhythms of the classroom—the smiling faces, the inquisitive questions, and the extraordinary opportunity to motivate a new group of learners at the start of every school year. Whether I continue in education through advocacy, mentoring, consulting, or part-time teaching, I plan to use my skills, experience, and passion to support fair, equitable, and safe learning opportunities for all children.
Retirement is not an ending so much as a transition. After 31 years of teaching, I carry memories, techniques, and a deep commitment to students that will guide me in whatever comes next. The classroom has given me purpose; now it’s time to discover how that purpose can take new shape outside the daily bell.