By Rebecca Fraser-Thill
Endings feel unnatural even though, they're the most normal thing in the world.
My son's kindergarten teacher is moving on from teaching at the end of this academic year. She's "only" been teaching for six years, she's young, she's a brilliant educator, and she's in a well-resourced, highly supportive school. Most people would ask "why" or may lament this decision. But when I saw her for a parent-teacher conference this week, the day after the news was shared with the school community, I told her what I wish someone had said to me - and reiterated - throughout my life:
The impact you've had doesn't disappear when you're finished with that work.
The impact you've had doesn't disappear when you're finished with that work.
She looked like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders when I said it. "I think I needed to hear that."
And no wonder because people usually instead say things like, "You're leaving? Why? What happened?" Then they dig for the flaw in the workplace or in the profession...or in us.
And, let's face it, we do the same to ourselves.
Endings feel unnatural even though, in fact, they're the most normal thing in the world.
Our culture is obsessed with continuity. We seem to think that things are only good if they last and last and last. So when things end, we search for a justification, for a rationalization, for the "bad."
Whether that be in relationships or jobs or careers or where we live or fill-in-the-blank.
Perhaps the experience simply had its season, and now it's over.
Perhaps we wrung all of the greatness out of the situation, and it's simply time to move on.
Perhaps things did go a bit wonky at the end - or maybe severely, horribly wonky - but parts of the experience or much of the experience or even ALL of the experience but the final tiny part was meaningful and valuable and enriching.
The situation - the job or career or relationship - was complete. We made an impact and had a full experience for a time. And that time has ended.
As I told my son's teacher, we're a house of former educators - my husband a public school teacher for a decade, me a higher ed faculty member for nearly two decades - and before we quit, we each struggled to let go of what we thought of as a lifelong profession. She said she thought her gravestone would have "kindergarten teacher" on it. My husband titled his college capstone project "Born To Teach." We all wish we knew our lifelong path.
But life isn't like that. We think one thing, and then it changes.
Seasons end. Which doesn't mean the season was bad.
The impact you've had doesn't disappear when you're finished with that work. You're simply finished doing that work.