Driving Into the Storm

The sky opened up on my way to work, and I could barely see the road ahead.

It was one of those unusually dark Arizona mornings when the desert looks unfamiliar. Rain hammered the windshield. The wipers struggled to keep up. I slowed down, tightened my grip on the steering wheel, and focused on what I could see.

And somewhere in that downpour, it hit me: this drive felt a lot like leading a turnaround school. Limited visibility. Uncertainty around the next corner. The responsibility of moving forward when you cannot see how everything will work out.

As an assistant principal, I was already thinking about the storm waiting at school. How could I best support our students, teachers, and families when the stability we were working so hard to build kept slipping away?

Some days, turnaround feels like ten steps forward and fifty steps back. You think you are finally back to a full staff. You take a breath. You begin imagining what consistency might look like for a grade level that desperately needs it.

Then someone simply doesn’t show up.

And you scramble again.

You rearrange coverage, call for help, check on substitutes, and try to make sure every classroom has an adult ready to welcome students. Teachers adjust. Office staff pivot. Everyone stretches a little further.

But the students feel it, too.

For them, another unfamiliar adult at the classroom door can feel like another promise that didn’t hold. Another relationship interrupted. Another adult who let them down.

Even when an absence is unavoidable, when a teacher they love is out sick, the uncertainty is real. They miss that person. They wonder when things will feel normal again.

We see the disruption in classrooms, the defiance, and the frustration. We still have to address those behaviors. We also have to listen closely enough to understand what students are telling us through them. How many times can we ask children to adjust before we acknowledge how much adjusting they have already done?

That question helped guide my next step.

I brought the entire grade level together for a restorative circle, including their teachers and the substitutes helping carry them through this difficult stretch.

Everyone needed a voice.

Students needed space to explain what the constant changes felt like. Teachers and substitutes needed space to share what they needed to teach, support students, and keep classrooms safe.

My role was to facilitate and listen. We had to hear one another, and turn what we heard into clear expectations we could carry back into every classroom. We talked about what helps students feel supported. What makes learning difficult. What respect looks like when people are frustrated. What students need from adults, and what adults need from students.

From those conversations, we built shared expectations.

Does a restorative circle change the fact that they still don’t have a math teacher?

No.

Does it bring back the teacher they love who is out sick?

No.

Those realities remain, and so does our responsibility to keep working on them.

But does it help students hear the same message in every classroom, from every teacher, including a substitute who may have arrived that morning?

Yes.

Does it matter that students had a voice in shaping the expectations they are being asked to follow?

Yes.

And does it matter that teachers and substitutes know they are part of a team, with shared expectations and support?

Absolutely.

The circle gave us something concrete to build on while we continue working through the staffing challenges. We can return to what we had discussed together. We can remind students that their words helped shape our next steps—and show them that we had listened. That follow-through matters. A conversation means more when students can see it reflected in what adults do afterward.

I am learning that leading through these ups and downs requires a steady message, even when the circumstances keep changing. It requires honest communication with families, check-ins with exhausted teachers, support for substitutes, and a willingness to begin again after a difficult day.

It also requires admitting that we feel the strain. You can care deeply about this work and still be tired of scrambling. You can believe in your school and still have mornings when the road ahead feels hard to see.

On that drive, I couldn’t make the rain stop. I could slow down, pay attention, and make the next careful decision.

At school, I can keep showing up. I can listen. I can help create consistency in the parts of the day we can control. I can make sure students and adults know someone is paying attention to what they are carrying.

As our school community enjoys our fall break, I am hoping it gives all of us room to breathe. I hope our students return feeling heard. I hope our families feel the care behind our efforts. I hope our teachers return with a little more energy and a little more confidence that they have support. I hope the rainbow that appears after a storm appears for this grade level.

Maybe we will first see it in a calmer classroom, a familiar routine, or a student who begins to trust again. Maybe it will be a teacher who finally gets to teach without spending the day navigating another disruption. Those are the moments I am looking forward to—the small signs that the sky is clearing.

Our students, families, and teachers have weathered a lot. We could all use a rainbow after fall break.

And, honestly, a little pot of gold wouldn’t hurt either.