The Kind of Joy That Stays With You

There are chapters in life that mark you. For me, Pre-K was one of them.

I spent years in that little world, surrounded by tiny humans with loud voices and even louder imaginations. Some days it was messy and wild. Some days it was magic. Most days, it was both.

And even now, I miss it.

I miss the random hand-raising that had nothing to do with the lesson.

Me: “What do bears eat?”

Kid: “My grandma has a cat!”

I miss the curiosity that came in the form of five different questions at once, half of them about snacks, all of them valid.

I miss the glue-sticked fingers and dressing up.

The weird, wonderful conversations during circle time.

The block towers built higher than we thought were structurally safe, and the absolute joy when they came crashing down.

And I miss the way my sister and I tag-teamed the whole thing. The looks across the room when a kid said something so far out there, we had to physically turn away to avoid laughing. The whispered jokes behind the scenes. The chaos we barely controlled, the deep breath before every class, and the way we knew, without saying a word, that we were in this together.

We poured ourselves into those classrooms. Especially around the holidays.

The Elf, The North Pole & Plane Rides Around the World

We went all in. 

Our Elf on the Shelf arrived with full fanfare. The kids believed, and we made sure of it. We’d spend hours setting up surprises, transforming the classroom into a North Pole wonderland complete with Santa’s workshop and Mrs Clause’s kitchen. 

One year, we turned the entire room into a plane. Yep. Chairs in rows, fake passports, snacks in ziplocks. We “flew” to different countries to see how they celebrated the holidays. Different foods. Different traditions. Different languages. You bet we used accents, probably offensive ones if we’re being honest, but the heart was in the right place.

It was soooo much work. But it was beautiful.

Because the kids didn’t just learn about the world, they learned empathy. Curiosity. They learned that not everyone does things the same way, and that’s not just okay, it’s cool.

They asked questions. So many questions. Some of them are impossible to answer. Some are so simple they hit like a punch in the heart.

They tried things and failed. Tried again. Failed again. Then got it right. Or didn’t but laughed anyway.

They taught us as much as we ever taught them.

What It All Meant

People think of Pre-K as crayons and circle time. But it’s more than that. For many, it’s their first world outside their home. Their first shot at community. Their first chance to figure out who they are when their parents aren’t watching.

And for us? It was a masterclass in humanity.

We saw what raw empathy looks like.

We saw kids run to hug a crying friend, no hesitation.

We saw them help each other up when towers fell, hold hands during stories, and cheer when someone finally zipped their coat by themselves.

We saw pure joy in little things.

Like finding the blue marker.

Or being picked to pass out snacks.

Or realizing they could finally write the letter “S” without it looking like a snake.

We saw resilience.

They fell. A lot.Off chairs. Off feelings.

But they got back up every time.

And sure, it wasn’t all sparkles and sentiment.

There were snotty noses. Endless tissues.

Sticky fingers that somehow touched every single surface.

The prep work took longer than the actual lesson.

The laminating. The cutting. The gluing. The theme days. The crafts.The late nights setting up activities that were destroyed in 2.5 minutes.

It was a lot.

And often, no one saw that part. The effort behind the scenes. The scramble. The exhaustion.

But we did it anyway. For the kids. For the magic. For those few moments when a child looked up and whispered, “This is the best day ever.”

And honestly? It was worth it every time.

The Bond It Built

Teaching with my sister was its own kind of gift.

We weren’t just sisters. We were co-conspirators in classroom magic.

We saw each other at our most exhausted and most creative.

We survived glitter explosions and holiday parties and surprise fire drills.

We laughed until we cried.

We got frustrated, got over it, and got right back to work.

Cemented a bond that nothing else quite could.

What I Carry With Me Now

I don’t teach Pre-K anymore. But it’s still in me.

It’s in the way I pause now to appreciate the small things.

It’s in the grace I try to give myself when I mess up.

It’s in the reminder that learning is supposed to be messy.

People grow when you give them space, kindness, and just a little bit of glitter.

It’s in how I see the world.

More curious. More playful. Less perfect.

More like a child.

And honestly? That’s exactly the perspective I want to keep.

Looking back, I know now, we’re meant to live through certain seasons so they can teach us something. Pre-K wasn’t just a job. It was a life course in empathy, presence, humility, and wonder.

That classroom taught me that people aren’t meant to be polished; we’re meant to be in progress. That failing is part of building. That joy can be found in the middle of a disaster. That's when you see others through the lens of curiosity instead of judgment; everything softens.

Those years made me a better human. A more patient mother. A more understanding friend. 

Why Am I Telling You This?

Because maybe you’re in the thick of it right now. The drop-offs, the packed lunches, the work stress, the mess on the kitchen counter that just keeps reappearing. Maybe life feels like one long to-do list. And I get it. But I’m telling you this because those little, ordinary moments? They matter more than we think. The silly conversations, the failed attempts, the snack-time stories, the “try again” moments, they’re not distractions. They’re the good stuff. They’re what stick. And if we can pause long enough to notice them, to let them shape us a little, we might just find more joy in the life we’re already living.