Welcome to the Show: My First Year Teaching

I still remember the feeling of walking into my very first classroom—talk about fake it till you make it. Despite both of my practicums being in elementary schools, I somehow found myself teaching high school. When those first students walked in for orientation, I felt like I was in way over my head. My stomach dropped, I felt the heat of the incessant neck rash I get when public speaking creep into my face, and for a split second, I questioned what the hell am I doing here. But there was no time for doubt—I had to take a deep breath, plaster on a confident smile, and step into the role of I know exactly what I’m doing.

I fell into a last-minute position teaching dance, yoga, and phys ed. While I had no experience teaching division three, I had spent the past five years as a dance teacher to senior-level students, so at least that part felt familiar. Still, I could sense the curiosity (and maybe a little skepticism) from my experienced phys ed co-teachers on that first day as they sized me up, wondering how I’d handle gym classes with such a diverse group of students. Without hesitation, they threw me into the deep end, handing me the mic to lead the orientation for our second block of students.

Determined to own the moment, I channeled my best lifelong phys ed teacher energy and dove right in. And then, in front of a gym full of high schoolers, I confidently announced, “And expect to play with all different kinds of balls…” Not until I heard the low mumble of pubescent boys cheering to each other did I realize what I had just said.

Welcome to the show that is teaching. Hahaha.

The school I was teaching at backed right onto the river valley littered with hiking trails, so whenever possible, I took full advantage and held phys ed outside. The only problem? I have absolutely no sense of direction. I’d basically been winging it my whole life, only truly getting to where I needed to go with efficiency when Google Maps became a thing.

On one of my first days leading a class through the trails, I suddenly realized we were supposed to be back in five minutes. And we were definitely lost. To make matters worse, we weren’t alone—I had another class with me, led by a substitute teacher who looked exactly like you’d picture: an older lady with a lifetime of cigarette breaks behind her, clearly just here for the extra paycheck. Trying to play it cool, I made the executive decision to ditch the trails and cut straight up through the trees. That’s how I found myself physically pushing this poor woman up the hill while panic sweat started to set in.

After three minutes of pure struggle, I abandoned all sense of support. It was every man for himself. I took off up the hill with the kids, sprinting back to the school with seconds to spare. No idea what happened to the sub, but I assume she made it out eventually, as I saw her cruising the halls at the end of the day.

I learned a lot of things the hard way in that first position. As an arts and wellness teacher, I didn’t have a strong collaborative group to guide me, and there were a lot of assumptions from my co-teachers about what I should already know. Booking my first substitute when I woke up sick, completing my first round of progress reports, even determining assessment strategies and mark weightings—these were all things that might have been mentioned in university classes or briefly reviewed during my practicum. But in the moment, sitting there alone, expected to figure it out with confidence, they suddenly carried a whole new weight.

I vividly remember my first round of progress reports—and not in a fond memory kind of way. With no exemplars, and being the only one teaching dance and yoga, I was on my own. I poured my heart into that first draft, feeling pretty accomplished—until I handed it to an experienced teacher for feedback. She barely glanced at it before sliding it back to me, "try again." Turns out, my masterpiece was riddled with grammar mistakes, incorrect pronouns, and way too much writing. After revising, I handed in my updated draft… only to have it returned covered in sticky notes. Hundreds of them. Once I finally tackled all those corrections and submitted it to the assistant principal, you guessed it—more sticky notes. This would be my worst nightmare as an experienced teacher now, but my fresh-to-the-scene self floated through each round of corrections, blissfully unaware of the impression I may or may not have been leaving on my mentors.

The beauty of succeeding in the confidence I projected—despite that it was mostly a facade—was that the design of my classes and space was truly and authentically me. The magnitude of making a good impression on administration, worrying about what my peers thought when I spoke up in staff meetings, or preparing for formal observations hadn’t fully hit me in this new role. Instead, I was filled with passion and excitement and was free to create spaces that aligned with my values and heart.

In yoga, I built a predictable and intentional space centered around journaling, mindfulness, and self-awareness. Mats had assigned placements, and students had an open line of communication with me through their journals. I witnessed incredible, vulnerable breakthroughs—sometimes from the most unexpected students. One student, a self-proclaimed class clown and star athlete, walked in on day one ready to entertain. Within months, he was curating our class playlist, pouring his heart out in his journal about the loss of a friend, and committing fully to our yoga practice.

I read all 80 students journals every week, writing back to them and marking them each individually. As a new teacher, this was my priority and although that amount of work would not have been sustainable over years of teaching, it built connections and relationships that teaching alone would not have allowed.

In dance, I faced the challenge of teaching grades 10, 11, and 12 in the same class—some students had never danced before, while others were among the most talented dancers I had ever seen. To create a supportive and inclusive environment, I implemented a rotating buddy system where students co-stretched, provided technical feedback, choreographed together, and completed journal reflections. During a formal observation, my assistant principal left the class in tears, later telling me she couldn’t distinguish between the different skill levels—she had only witnessed raw commitment to movement, expression, and artistry from every student in the room.

In phys ed, my focus from day one was sportsmanship above all else. One student, recovering from a broken hip, couldn’t physically participate, so I gave her a new role: co-teacher. Over time, she found her voice as a leader, coaching her peers with confidence. At the end of the term, she handed me a letter. She thanked me for seeing something in her she hadn’t even realized was there—something that, as she put it, had changed her.

At the core of every space created—whether in yoga, dance, or phys ed—was the commitment to safety, trust, and belonging. I understood that for teenagers, especially those uncomfortable in their own bodies or identities, the willingness to take risks depended on feeling truly seen and supported. By developing predictable routines, open communication, and peer connections, I gave students permission to show up authentically—whether that meant journaling through grief, dancing without fear of judgment, or stepping into leadership roles they never imagined for themselves. My greatest success wasn’t in perfecting technique or lesson plans; it was in cultivating spaces where students felt safe enough to grow, express, and push past their own perceived limitations.

I know I made plenty of administrative mistakes that first year. Looking back, I was incredibly naïve—I had no real grasp of school politics, the weight of systemic challenges, or the skepticism that can sometimes creep in over time. In some ways, however, that naïveté was a gift. I wasn’t influenced by the cynicism or negativity that can sometimes be passed down by burned-out teachers. Instead, I was free to create, to trust my instincts, and to believe wholeheartedly in the impact I could have. By being given the space to develop my authentic self as a teacher, I dove into an unwavering passion for this work. The lessons I learned in that school—about connection, trust, and the power of creating meaningful spaces—became the foundation of the educator I am today.

Ponder This:

We would love for you to share your answers in the comments or simply take a moment to reflect yourself:

• When was a time you had to "fake it till you make it" in your teaching journey? How did that experience shape your confidence and approach in the classroom?

• What intentional spaces have you created in your classroom to foster connection, trust, and belonging? How can you refine or expand these practices?

• Looking back at your first year of teaching, what is one lesson you learned the hard way that has influenced how you teach today?

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