Weathering the Storms

There is a version of the principalship that lives comfortably in leadership books and conference keynotes. It is strategic, polished, and full of clean solutions. And then there is the real work. The human work. The days that feel more like weathering a storm than leading a school. The times they don't talk about in educational leadership classes. There are many of those storms in leadership. My first year at my current school was one of those storms. To be more accurate, it was a monsoon.

It was a year of significant change layered on top of a culture where student violence had become normalized. Fights were frequent. Systems were reactive. Adults were conditioned to move quickly to paperwork and consequences, often without pausing to see the child sitting in front of them.

One moment from that year has never left me.

An eighth grade boy sat across from me in my office after being jumped by two other students on campus. He was trying hard to hold himself together, already preparing to defend himself, already assuming he would have to plead his case to avoid suspension. That had been past practice. Get the statement. Determine fault. Assign consequences. Move on.

Instead, I sat across from him. No clipboard. No forms. I asked three words. “Are you okay?”

He broke.

Not the quiet kind of tears, but deep sobs that shook his body. This young man, tall and strong and already carrying more weight than any child should, crumbled in front of me. I grabbed the tissue box and let him cry. When he could finally speak, he told me something that stopped me cold.

“No one has ever asked me that before. Not my parents. Not anyone.”

We did talk about the incident. We talked about accountability and choices. There was still a consequence. But most of our conversation wasn’t about the fight. It was about him.

He told me about his dreams of finishing high school early. About wanting to play football. About going to college. Aspirations that were not typical in our community, but deeply real to him. He shared that he was new to the school this year and believed a group of students had been testing him, picking fights because of his size. He wasn’t just a discipline referral. He was a child trying to survive and figure out who he could trust.

That conversation is a loud reminder I carry with me on the hardest days. These are children. They are struggling. They need to know they are seen. They need to know someone cares enough to ask if they are okay.

Turnaround work is filled with hard days. When that boy left my office, I closed the door and cried. Not just for him and his pain, but because this work can be overwhelming, difficult, and so much more emotional than outsiders can imagine.

Days when staff are angry. Days when parents are angry. Days when it feels like every step is under a microscope or someone is waiting for a reason to remove you from the role. Days when you are exhausted, setting aside your own life so you can be fully “on” for your school community.

This is the norm of the principalship, especially when your school is labeled as failing. Even when you know the truth. That students are learning. That teachers are growing. That the culture is shifting. The stakes feel impossibly high every single day.

Holding the culture together matters. Protecting the learning environment matters. Keeping school spirit alive matters. And some days, it feels like more than one person should have to carry.

On the nights when I come home feeling like I can’t keep going, my husband asks me the same question.

“Who’s the one person today?” Who was the student or staff member whose day was better because I listened? Because I showed up? Because I cared?

Sometimes I want to yell back that I am angry and frustrated and tired and ready to quit. But he’s right. That question grounds me. It reminds me why we stay. Why we keep showing up even when the storms don’t let up.

I am also deeply fortunate to do this work alongside someone who truly understands it. My TOSA, though in practice she is an assistant principal in every way that matters, is my equal and my partner. We came to this school together after leaving another campus where we worked side by side as principal and dean of students. She is also a close friend. I cannot imagine doing this work without her.

We balance each other. We support each other on the worst days and celebrate the small wins together. Our shared history removes much of the friction from the work. We trust each other deeply. We don’t need endless conversations about next steps. We know how each other thinks. That trust matters when decisions are heavy and time is short.

Our storms are big. Arizona monsoon big. Loud, sudden, and overwhelming. But we are still standing.

For me, it is the kids. The small celebrations. My husband’s steady grounding question. And the partnership I share with my TOSA that keep me moving forward when quitting feels tempting.

This is the human side of the principalship. Not the polished version. The real one.