Honestly, Sandie

DAY 4/10 The Thread
Listening to: Dog Days Are Over

It is 12:44 in the morning.

My sweet husband is asleep next to me, my suitcase is finally packed for tomorrow night’s flight, my laptop is glowing in the dark, and I am sitting here wondering if I just accidentally figured out my whole life while standing in the shower at almost 11 PM trying to preserve hot water like the spoiled little princess I absolutely am.

Which feels inconvenient.

Because tomorrow is work. Tomorrow is the airport. Tomorrow is normal life. ( Well the normal kind of life that leads to flying on a plane to California)

And tonight?

Tonight feels like somebody quietly handed me a thread and said, here… pull this.

So I did.

And now I can’t stop seeing it.

Years ago, in one of those executive leadership meetings at church, our pastor asked a question. If money was not an issue, what would you do? What would you ask for for your family, for yourself, for the church, for the world?

And I answered immediately.

“I would open a youth center.”

No hesitation.

No polished mission statement.

No nonprofit elevator pitch.

Just certainty.

Because kids need somewhere to belong.

Kids need adults who notice.

Kids need people who remember their favorite snack, know when they suddenly go quiet, ask what happened when something feels off, make room for their weirdness, sit in the hard moments, laugh at dumb jokes, and somehow remind them they matter while pretending they are not doing anything extraordinary at all.

I forgot I even said that.

Or maybe I buried it because life got loud.

Tonight my brain started backing up.

Way up.

Like little Sandie up.

Why was I the kid helping in special ed? Why did I care so much about the kids who struggled? Why was I helping teach Spanish to another student because somewhere in my tiny dramatic soul I had apparently already decided we are not leaving people behind today?

Why did teachers matter so much to me?

Not casually.

Deeply.

The seventh-grade teacher whose car I helped wrap. The eighth-grade teacher I adored. The ones I sat with after class. The ones who made me laugh, challenged me, saw something in me before I had language for what that even meant.

When I graduated high school, I hand delivered graduation invitations to every teacher who mattered to me.

Every single one.

Even my preschool teacher.

Preschool.

Which sounds dramatic until I sit here now and realize maybe I was thanking the people who quietly helped shape me before I understood they were shaping me.

Then adulthood starts piling up and honestly the receipts are embarrassing.

From 2010 on, I taught first through fourth graders every Wednesday night at church. Every week. Then around 2012, I moved into youth ministry and stayed there until 2023.

Eleven years.

Eleven years of middle school chaos, camp cabins, tears, giant feelings, heartbreak, awkward phases, identity questions, terrible jokes, late-night talks, snacks, prayer circles, drama, laughter, and trying to help kids survive being young.

And the wild part?

Some of those teenagers were the same little first through fourth graders I had taught years earlier.

I watched them grow up.

Really grow up.

I knew their stories. I knew when something felt wrong. I knew who needed extra attention, who was carrying too much, who needed somebody to sit beside them before asking questions.

I knew when to just listen.

I loved standing in front of those kids and reminding them that grit mattered, that hard things do not get to waste you, that life can hand you wild stories and somehow you still get to become someone beautiful anyway.

And here is the truth that hurts to say out loud:

The saddest thing I left behind in church was not church.

It was them.

The kids.

Not the meetings. Not the hierarchy. Not production. Not titles. Not the adults pretending proximity to leadership meant purpose.

The kids.

That is the grief.

The trust.

The hugs.

The “Can I ask you something?”

The moments when somebody seeks you out because they know you are safe.

And then there is another truth that hit me tonight so hard I almost got mad.

When I was fully inside church, I never pictured myself working full time anywhere again.

Ever.

Not because I lacked ambition.

Not because I did not care about a career.

Because I thought I had already found the thing.

I thought church was the calling.

I thought purpose lived inside those four walls.

I thought this was it.

And now I wonder if I got so close to the container that I missed what it was holding.

Because what wrecked me was never the meetings.

It was never leadership.

It was never the machine.

It was teaching.

Mentoring.

Showing up.

Sitting with somebody long enough to help them understand themselves.

Somewhere inside all the noise, I think the actual pull got drowned out.

And that is brutal to realize at forty-four.

Then my mind goes to 2011 to 2013 when apparently I accidentally collected children through Girl Scouts. Or volunteering at my oldest kid’s school like it was my second job. Room mom. Field trips. Class parties. Yearbook lady. Box Tops lady. PTA historian. Knowing every teacher by name because I was not just invested in my own kid.

I cared about the whole ecosystem.

The kids.

The teachers.

The community trying to raise tiny humans.

Then 2020.

The nonprofit interview helping girls escaping trafficking in our community.

A fundraising role I was not perfectly equipped for.

And when they asked me about passion, I told them the truth.

The youth center dream.

The belonging dream.

The safe adults dream.

I told them kids matter.

I told them I cared.

And they trained me.

Passion got me in the room.

And tonight, at work, we honored graduating seniors. Students who selected one educator who changed their life. One teacher who mattered.

Their person.

And I sat behind my camera watching students sit beside the teacher they chose. Watching hugs between kids and adults who had clearly walked through something together. Watching somebody point to the person who changed the trajectory of their story.

Elementary teachers.

Middle school teachers.

High school teachers.

Years later, still remembered.

Still loved.

Still carrying impact they probably do not even fully understand.

And behind that camera I cried.

Quietly.

Because suddenly it all made sense.

Of course I cry at Stand and Deliver. Of course I cry at Dead Poets Society. Mona Lisa Smile. Patch Adams. Dangerous Minds.

Those stories are about people showing up and changing lives.

And here is the sentence I think I have been afraid to say out loud:

I think I am supposed to be a teacher.

There.

I said it.

Which feels ridiculous and obvious at the exact same time.

Like maybe I spent years standing beside the thing I was built for while mistaking the building around it for the assignment.

Maybe I missed the point.

Or maybe I finally got quiet enough to hear myself.

And if I know anything tonight, lying here beside the man I love while the room goes still and tomorrow waits for me, it is this:

When you finally find the thing that pulls at your whole heart, you do not hold it hostage.

You give it away.

Today’s post was creatively inspired by “Dog Days Are Over” by Florence + the Machine. Sometimes a song does not explain the story, it simply holds the feeling of it. If you listen while reading, you might just feel the moment something cracked open for me. 😉

If this hit somewhere tender in you, leave me a note – I love reading comments. Was there ever a clue in your life you missed until much later? And if you want to follow this wild little unraveling in real time, subscribe so you are first to read what comes next.

Honestly, Sandie