Resistance to Change and the Teaching Struggle Is Real
I’ve been thinking a lot about this school year lately. More than usual, I have been reflecting on the school year that’s in the books now. It wasn’t easy. Honestly, it was one of the hardest years I’ve had in a while. Not because of behavior issues, which I had to some extent (though most of my students are pretty chill), or grading, which I hate with a passion (I much prefer creating learning experiences), or administrative stuff, which is what it is, but because I felt like I regressed.
Like I forgot, after 22 years of doing it, how to be a teacher.
I found myself questioning things I thought I had long figured out—especially when it comes to my understanding of students. And after 12+ years of of teaching chemistry in my current school, it was jarring to feel that way. But change, especially top-down forced change, has a way of doing that.
Last year, I transitioned from teaching upperclassmen in Chemistry—a subject I know like the back of my hand—to teaching Earth and Space Science to freshmen. That’s right. Fourteen-year-olds. Ninth graders. A totally different beast.
And wow, was I not ready.
Let’s start with the students themselves. Juniors in chemistry have a level of maturity (usually), a sense of structure and responsibility (again, usually), and at the very least, they have a clearer picture of the expectations of high school life (read: they know what not to do better than the youngins). Freshmen, on the other hand, are in the process of figuring it out. They’re bouncing between middle school habits and high school demands, trying to find their footing socially, emotionally, and academically. And I’ll admit—I struggled to meet them where they are.
Some of the struggle was internal. I resisted the change. I didn’t want to leave chemistry. It’s a subject I love and have spent years crafting lessons for, refining labs, and building strong connections with older students I taught. I even liked writing college and scholarship recommendation letters, even if I procrastinated with finishing all of them.
And being asked to teach Earth Science—a subject I hadn’t taught since the dark ages (aka my middle school days)—felt like an earthquake constantly shifting the ground beneath me.
But what really caught me off guard was how it affected my confidence in the classroom. Not on the subject matter—I have an Earth and Environmental Sciences degree and have always liked how relevant the content is—but on being a better pedagogue and mentor.
I found myself questioning my instincts. Am I being too hard on them? Not hard enough? Do they even know how to learn? Why aren’t they getting what I’m giving? Is critical thinking not very critical at this age and am I too critical of it? Too demanding? I felt myself slipping into frustration more often than I’d like to admit. And worse, I caught myself forgetting what I’ve always known: students aren’t finished products. They are works in progress, just like I am.
The last two years reminded me of something I hadn’t felt in years: the sharp learning curve new teachers climb. The feeling that you’re constantly behind, that you’re not doing right by your students, that you should know more, do more, be more. And while it was uncomfortable, in the end it proved illuminating.
I’ve come to realize struggling isn’t failing. It’s growing.
Regression first. Struggle next. In the end, recalibration. The three stages of teacher death and rebirth. Leo T. is rolling his eyes while rolling in his grave right now.
Teaching freshmen science forced me to listen more intently, observe more closely, and adapt more quickly. It challenged me to remember that good teaching isn’t just about mastery of content—it’s about connection, patience, and flexibility. But most of all, humility.
First trimester was tough, because I was failing at something I was supposed to be good at.
But then—something shifted.
In second trimester, I began to settle. I got to know the students better, and more importantly, I let them get to know me—not the perfect version of a teacher I had in my head, but the real one. I started to communicate the expectations better. In fact, I adjusted my expectations, both of students and of myself. I leaned into the chaos instead of constantly trying to control it, because I accepted that freshmen are a mess, make a mess, and, in their wake, leave a mess.
I started finding joy in small wins: when an autistic student who is always on the edge ready to jump off a one-thousand foot high cliff had a freakout free day, or when a class that used to feel like giving a TED Talk to caffeinated squirrels actually was able to hold their side conversations, shut up, and listen to the directions that did, by the way, help them be more successful in their learning, and by that I mean get a better grade of course. I stopped comparing this year to past years. I stopped wishing I was teaching something else and started teaching the kids in front of me. It made all the difference.
By third trimester, I wasn’t just surviving—I was enjoying it. I felt more relaxed, more responsive, and more in tune with what these freshmen needed. I started to see the progress they’d made—not just academically, but emotionally. I could see how they had grown, and I realized that I had too. And, we started to like each other.
I ate my humble pie, gave up trying to control what I cannot control, and grew as a result.
So if you’re a teacher who’s had a tough year or who may be shifting grade levels, changing subjects, or just going through a rough patch in the future: I see you. Change is hard. Regression happens. But so does growth. We don’t always get to choose our challenges, but we can choose how we show up for them.
Teaching is never truly mastered. Every class, every group of students, every subject comes with its own learning curve. And while it’s uncomfortable to feel like a beginner again, it’s also a powerful reminder of why we do this in the first place.
To learn and grow as human beings first, and teachers second.
We learn every year, because we choose to stay when every fiber of our being tells us to run away. We stick it out. We keep the faith.
And next year? We’ll be better—not because we go back to what was, but because we stayed in the struggle long enough to realize that while we cannot always win, we can always learn.
Here’s to the teachers who are still learning.
Thanks for reading my thoughts! I hope they help you in being more you. Check out my shop (see top) if you need thoughtful (not busy work), engaging (fun), project-based and phenomena-based (the whole NGSS thing) Earth and Space Science lessons. I try to keep the prices decent, but if you cannot spare the $, please email me and I’ll give you whatever you need for free.
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