What Halloween, middle school behavior, and school turnaround have in common.

Sometimes life and school leadership collide in ways that leave even the most dedicated educators questioning how much more they can carry. Between staffing shortages, rising student behaviors, personal challenges, and the fear of losing hard-earned progress, October has lived up to its nickname: “Sucktober.” Yet amid the exhaustion and uncertainty, unexpected moments of kindness, student success, and community support remind us why we do this work. Turnaround isn't a straigh

Why, when confronted with pictures of my hometown devastated by a tornado, did I instinctively search for my schools? Connection? Safety? Belonging? Positive memories? Maybe all of them. And because I am an educator, eventually the personal reflection became a professional one.

There is something special about the first few days back on campus. Before students fill the hallways and the bells begin to dictate our days, there is an energy that is hard to describe. Classrooms are being organized, bulletin boards are coming to life, lesson plans are taking shape, and conversations echo through the halls. It feels like possibility. This year, though, that energy feels different. It isn't just the excitement that comes with a new school year. It's the con

Eventually, something remarkable happens. You stop having to convince people to help. You stop reminding people to support one another. You stop managing every act of teamwork. People simply begin living the values of the organization because those values have become part of who they are.

There is already a nationwide shortage of qualified science teachers. Finding someone in July is difficult enough. Finding someone who wants to join a turnaround school, believes in its mission, and can immediately replace the trust this teacher built over an entire year is something else entirely. That isn't filling a vacancy. That is trying to replace a relationship. Our school needs him. Our community needs him. Our students need him.

Accountability scores matter, but they are never the whole story. Long before the state recognized our growth, students were beginning to feel like they belonged. Teachers were believing in one another again. Hallways felt different. Classrooms felt different. Hope had returned before our score appeared on a spreadsheet.

The storm has passed. The answers are submitted. Somewhere, the scores already exist. Here we are walking hallways that feel different, carrying a weight we can’t act on, replaying moments we can’t change. This is the part no one talks about. Not the push, not the pressure, not the performance. The wait. The space where effort turns into uncertainty, where “almost” lingers, and where the only question left is the one you can’t answer yet: Was it enough?

There is a moment every spring when the building feels different. You can hear it in the quieter laughter, see it in the way teachers hold eye contact just a second longer, feel it in the unspoken question sitting in every room. State testing is coming, and in a turnaround school, that does not feel like a date on a calendar. It feels like a verdict.

Contract season will likely always carry a degree of uncertainty. Schools are dynamic organizations operating within larger systems that must constantly adapt. Still, as decisions are made in the coming months, it may be worth asking one additional question alongside budget projections and enrollment counts. Not only “What positions do we need?” But also, “What relationships are worth protecting?”

School safety is not just about officers and locked doors. It is also about counselors who help students through grief, fear, and crisis. In Arizona, those positions are quietly disappearing. As school leaders, we are left asking who will support our students when tragedy strikes. Safe schools are built on support, not just surveillance.

In a turnaround school, observation season feels less like paperwork and more like walking a tightrope. One step too soft and you ignore what needs to change. One step too heavy and you crush the very people doing the work. And the work is hard. In a turnaround school, teachers are not just delivering lessons. They are rebuilding systems, reestablishing expectations, reteaching behaviors, and restoring belief. So how do you hold teachers accountable while building their confi

There are parts of educational leadership that never show up in preparation programs. No syllabus. No case study. No neat framework. They live in the quiet moments, the hallway pauses, the unscheduled crises, and the emotional weight you carry home long after the building is empty. The last couple of weeks have been heavy. Not the “busy” heavy that we like to romanticize in leadership. The real kind. Last week we were notified that a parent in our community was shot and kille

“Thanks for helping me believe I’m not dumb.” If a student felt the need to say that, what had school taught them before they ever walked into that classroom? In the urgency of turnaround, we measure growth, track data, and chase outcomes. But beneath every score is a belief a student holds about themselves. The question we rarely stop to ask is this: What does your classroom teach students about who they are when the test is over?

Before any strategy can work, people have to feel safe. In my latest Turnaround Unscripted post, I reflect on Jubilee Ransome’s NAESP article on psychological safety and what it really looks like inside a school in the middle of change. When educators feel safe to speak, disagree, and own their growth, real improvement becomes possible. When they don’t, even the best plans stall. Read why culture always comes before strategy.

Turnaround work is full of storms that test even the strongest leaders. One moment with an eighth grade student reminded me that sometimes the most powerful leadership begins with a simple question: “Are you okay?”

In the weeks before the first bell. this reflection explores the strategic, emotional, and human work of leading a school through renewal, where master schedules, staffing decisions, and system-building intersect with culture, trust, and hope. This year, the work carries added weight as I watch my daughter begin her own journey as a special education teacher.