Why We Stay

There are moments in teaching that keep you here.

Not the meetings.
Not the paperwork.
Not the instructional models we are told are “best practice” simply because they are written into policy.

The moments that keep you here are quieter—and heavier in the best way.

I have been an educator for nearly nine years. Before that, I was a paraprofessional for three. Before I ever knew I would become a teacher—while I was still earning my bachelor’s degree in political science—I was a substitute, stepping into classrooms without fully understanding yet how deeply this work would shape me.

I have taught in every setting, K–12.
I have seen the best of public education—and the worst.
And over the last two years, I have wrestled deeply with whether I can stay in this profession at all.

Many educators have.

And yet.

There are moments so profoundly grounding that walking away feels like leaving something unfinished.

This Is Not About the Model

I want to be honest about something.

This reflection is not an endorsement of co-teaching as a model.

In fact, I do not believe co-teaching, as it is often implemented, is inherently effective. Too often it becomes performative, uneven, or compliance-driven rather than instructionally meaningful.

My role in this class looks different from traditional whole-group instruction, emphasizing student support, collaboration, and observation rather than direct delivery.

And yet, this class has been one of the most professionally affirming experiences I have had in years.

Not because of the structure.

Because of the teacher.

The Material That Changes the Room

This class is grounded in material that demands something from both students and teachers.

Not passive consumption.
Not surface-level comprehension.
But engagement with what it means to be human.

Students wrestle with:

• The Anthropocene Reviewed, which invites reflection on ordinary human experiences with humility, curiosity, and moral weight

• Hamilton, where ambition, power, voice, and legacy collide across history

• The Crucible, exposing fear, mass hysteria, and the cost of silence

• Ralph Waldo Emerson and the foundations of Transcendentalism, challenging students to consider conscience, self-reliance, and integrity in a conformist world

This isn’t a checklist of texts.

It’s a philosophical throughline.

Each work asks students to confront the same questions, again and again:

• What do we owe one another?

• When does silence become complicity?

• How do fear and power distort truth?

• What responsibility does the individual have to act?

When a classroom is built around questions like these, the room changes.

Students realize they aren’t being asked for right answers, but for honest thinking.

Learning by Witnessing Mastery

There is something deeply humbling about watching someone who truly knows their craft.

The teacher leading this class does not teach to check boxes. He teaches to awaken thought. He challenges students to read deeply, write honestly, and wrestle with ideas that do not resolve neatly.

The curriculum is not chosen for convenience. It is chosen for meaning.

Students explore essays that examine what it means to be human in a fragile world.
They study history through ambition, language, and legacy.
They confront fear, moral courage, and the cost of silence.
They wrestle with ideas of self-reliance, conscience, and the relationship between the individual and society.

This is not surface-level engagement.

It is intellectual rigor paired with emotional depth.

Teaching That Honors the Human Experience

What makes this classroom exceptional is not that I am co-teaching in it.

It is that I am learning from it.

There are moments when the discussions unfold with such honesty—about fear, responsibility, identity, and moral choice—that I quietly reach for a tissue. Not because the room is sad, but because it is true.

This kind of teaching does something rare.

It invites students to understand not only themselves—but others.

It reminds you that education, at its best, is not about control or compliance. It is about reflection, meaning-making, and humanity.

The Teachers Students Remember Later

I hope the students appreciate this now.

But even if they do not—yet—I know this with certainty:

This is the kind of educator students think about years later.

The kind they reference in college essays.
The kind they remember when they encounter injustice, complexity, or moral tension in adulthood.
The kind who quietly shapes how they read the world.

Not every teacher is remembered for their lesson plans.

Some are remembered for how they taught students to see.

Why This Matters Right Now

In a profession marked by burnout, disillusionment, and attrition, it matters to name what still works—and why.

Not programs.
Not models.
Not buzzwords.

But people.

Educators who are more than educators.
Educators who are, in some ways, philosophers.
Educators who remind us what this work was always supposed to be.

This class does not make me believe in co-teaching.

It makes me believe in teaching.

And right now, that matters.

A Quiet Review

In the spirit of The Anthropocene Reviewed, where ordinary human moments are examined with reverence and care, this reflection is my own small review—of a classroom, of a craft, and of an educator whose work speaks louder than any model or mandate ever could.

And as a silent nod to the teacher who reminded me why this profession still matters:

I give co-teaching in English III five stars.

In solidarity,
Lyndsay LaBrier
The Education Catalyst
Merchant Ship Collective