Hey, everyone. My name is Sarah Jenkins, and when I walk into this room, the first thing that comes to mind isn't a resume or a list of qualifications. It's just the sound of my own heart beating a little faster, like the first time I held a baby. I've spent the last two years walking that exact line between being a kid and being a parent, and honestly? I think that's the most valuable part of my job. I'm not here to sell you a dream; I'm here to tell you that the dream you're thinking about is actually a real, grounded, and totally doable thing. So, let me take you on a little tour of my life without the usual "firstly, secondly, finally" nonsense. I started this thing three years ago when I was just twenty-two, driving a rental car through the rain while my child cried in the car seat behind me. I didn't know if I could handle the chaos, the diapers, the tantrums, or just the sheer exhausting feeling of being a human being who could suddenly become a parent. But I realized then that I wasn't just a teacher; I was a survivalist. I realized that the students in my class didn't need perfect outfits or perfect social skills; they needed someone who could tell them their own name in five different languages and who could probably lift a thousand pounds without screaming. My journey to getting here wasn't a straight line up a ladder. It was a lot of falling down, a lot of trips to the gym, and a lot of crying in the shower because nobody told me to help myself. But those falls were the soil in which I grew something really solid. I saw a teacher who was too rigid with her rules and ended up breaking her own heart. I saw a colleague who was too soft and let the kids run wild until they got hurt. I wanted to be the middle path, the bridge between the two. It took me a while to find that balance, and sometimes I don't know if I'm doing it right. But I keep trying anyway because I'm too scared to give up. If I give up, the kids will get hurt, and I'll be the one crying in the car seat thinking, "I can't do this," even though I'm right here, trying to fix it. When I talk about my teaching philosophy, I don't think about "scaffolding" or "Vygotsky" like a student in a lecture hall. I think about the tools I use to help them climb. Recently, I tried a new method where we used digital flashcards in the real classroom, and boy was that experimental! Kids were confused for a minute, thinking it was a magic trick, but by the end of the lesson, they were using those flashcards in their own rooms to memorize stories for the weekend. It was messy and unprepared, but it worked. I saw a boy who usually broke the rules not because he was defiant, but because he didn't have a reference point to show me when he messed up. He just needed someone to say, "Hey, look, I did this specific thing wrong, and I'll tell you what to do next," and he could keep himself from falling. That little gesture saved him from getting in trouble and gave him a way to feel like he had agency over his own mistakes. I've had some pretty wild moments in my teaching career. There was a class where five kids were asleep on the carpet during a science lesson because it was so boring. I couldn't bring myself to lecture, so I just started drawing pictures on the floor, and started telling them stories about dinosaurs that were totally real and had no dinosaur friends or scary animals. I couldn't control the room, but I could control the water. I poured one bucket of water into each kid's bucket, and suddenly, the water warmed up. The kids started talking, and then the room exploded with noise and laughter. It wasn't the intended outcome, but it was the outcome I needed. I learned that sometimes the best teaching happens when you just let the energy flow, you don't force it. You don't have to be the hero of the story, you just have to show up and be there so the story can continue. Speaking of numbers, I want to be honest about what I've accomplished. I've taken over twenty children, mostly ages three to six, through the summer break. That's a lot of eyes, a lot of ears, and a lot of needs. I've organized a summer camp for kids with special needs that lasted six months, and the kids actually said they wanted to keep coming back for more. I've created a reading program for adult students that turned into a weekly event at the school library, where I read books to adults for free. I'm proud that I left doors open for those of my colleagues who are having a hard time. I've hosted a talent show where kids read poems, and I've challenged them to write their own stories. These aren't just statistics; they're people who felt seen, heard, and heard back. When I look at that data, I don't see numbers; I see a community that's been built brick by brick over the past two years. I know that parenting is exhausting, and sometimes it feels like I'm running on fumes. I have days when I want to quit because I'm tired, and I'm tired of explaining the same things three times. But I've learned to listen for the cues. If they're not asking a question, they're probably getting bored. If they're eyeing the snacks, they're hungry. If they're staring at the chalkboard, they might just need something else to look at besides the math. I've noticed that when I slow down and just watch them, things get easier. I've seen a toddler transition from screaming to laughing when I stop talking and just smile. I've seen a shy kid step forward when I invite them to join a pair-programming game. It takes time, and it takes patience, but the payoff feels worth it every single time. I also believe that every child is unique, and I've learned to respect that. Some kids are naturally good at logic and math, others are art and music, others are social skills. I've made sure to tap into those different strengths in every single class. I've given extra help to the kids who struggle, but I've also encouraged the quiet ones to share their ideas. I've turned the classroom into a place where everyone has a voice. I've seen a girl who was usually silent start sharing her dream of opening her own bakery with her friends. I've seen a boy who loved dinosaurs start telling jokes about them to the whole class. That's the kind of thing that makes a teacher's job not just about delivering content, but about sparking a conversation. There are moments when I feel really tired, and I've been honest with myself about that. I've cried in the break room, and I've cried in the hallway. But I've also laughed, and I've built friendships with the students. I've had a teacher who was great at managing the class room, but terrible at connecting with the kids behind the desks. I've met a kid who was so excited she was crying when she saw me. I've had a lot of growth in my own emotional intelligence, and I'm still learning every single day. I'm not perfect, and I'm not the best teacher in the world, and I'm not the best parent in the world. But I think that's okay. What matters is that I'm here, I'm trying, and I'm trying to make a difference. I want to be the teacher that helps them see themselves as capable of a lot more than they think. I want to be the person who keeps them motivated when they feel like giving up. I want to be the one who helps them find their own solutions, not just tell them what to do. I'm not here to fix them, I'm here to be in their corner when they need it most, cheering them on when they're in the middle of a disaster. Finally, I want to thank everyone here. I thank the kids for their energy, their questions, and their trust. I thank my family for the support and the love that keeps me grounded. And I thank you for listening. I don't have all the answers, but I promise to keep showing up, to keep learning, and to keep trying to make a little bit of a difference, even if it's just a little bit. That's enough for me. Thanks for listening, and I hope to have the chance to talk to you again soon.