A First-Year Teacher’s Tale

Let me take you back to a time before diaper bags, dinner duty, and digital calendars filled with swim lessons and pediatrician appointments.

It’s me. First-year teacher me. Twenty-something, bright-eyed and… wildly underprepared for what teaching middle school actually meant.

I walked into my first classroom with color-coded folders, inspirational posters from Pinterest, and an unrealistic expectation that my students would find my dry sarcasm and obscure historical references charming. Spoiler alert: they did not.

I still remember the first time I tried to give a “look” to a kid in the back who wouldn’t stop drumming on his desk. He smiled. I panicked. Did I just accidentally start a flirtation? No. I’m his teacher. A grown-up. Act like one!

Middle schoolers are a special breed. They can smell fear. And gum. And they will ask questions like:

• “Do you have a boyfriend?”
• “Are you old?”
• “Is this going to be on the test?”
• “What would happen if I threw my pencil at the ceiling and it got stuck?”

(Answer: it did get stuck. And it’s probably still up there.)

But between the chaos and the caffeine runs, something happened. I started to get them. The sarcasm started to land. The routines became second nature. The same kid who tested every boundary now told me about his new puppy and asked for help on his essay. I found myself looking forward to the eye rolls and awkward dance moves and Friday hallway concerts.

And at the end of that first year? I wasn’t just surviving—I was hooked.

I didn’t have a spouse to vent to at the end of the day or kids of my own to compare to the ones in my class. It was just me, my coffee mug, and a big binder of lesson plans that constantly needed reworking. But I learned something crucial that year: middle schoolers are weird, wonderful humans who need adults that are willing to embrace the chaos and show up for them, day after day.

So, to any other new teacher out there—especially those navigating it solo—here’s your permission to laugh at the madness, learn as you go, and maybe cry a little in the supply closet (it’s okay, we’ve all been there).

You’ve got this. Your future self—with babies on her hip and a decade of teaching under her belt—is already proud of you.