I’m not just a teacher. I’m one of those teachers. The ones who stay late not to tick boxes, but to hold space—for a confused child, a scared parent, or a tired colleague. The ones who adjust, adapt, and reinvent their methods to match a system that often feels like it was never made for children. The ones who keep going, even when their knees ache, hearts break, and inboxes overflow.

Yes, I get things done. Fast. Efficient. Precise. I can jump into a new documentation format, decode new curriculum expectations, translate vague meetings into actual classroom outcomes—and still remember who forgot their lunch or had a nightmare last night. I’ve coordinated. I’ve mentored. I’ve created structures. I’ve run on coffee and conviction for years. And I did it with all my heart.

But somewhere in the noise of targets and tools, let’s not forget—I love being with children. That is where my soul rests. That’s where my job stops being “work.”

I watch them laugh at shadows, ask why the moon follows the car, cry over a broken crayon like it’s the end of the world—and I know I’m in the right place. These little ones… they love you not for what you teach, but for how present you are when you teach. They love you for the silly songs, the upside-down reading time, the moments you’re human with them. Not superior. Not controlling. Just human.

I’ve always believed that teaching is not about stuffing information into tiny heads. It’s about protecting curiosity from being killed by adult anxiety. It’s about saying yes to questions we don’t know the answers to. It’s about watching and learning from children—yes, us learning from them. Because let’s be honest, their hearts are cleaner than ours. Their joy is freer. Their wonder is intact. Who are we to shape them, when our own shapes are crooked?

I fight daily against a curriculum that often feels more like a bureaucratic checkbox list than a living, breathing guide for growth. I fight for the right to slow down. To let them listen to birds and see clouds turn into dragons. To feel the rhythm of a season. To love the earth because they’re part of it—not just memorize facts about it.

I want to show teachers that teaching can be beautiful, fulfilling, and respected. That we are not “just” teachers—we are caregivers, creators, facilitators, leaders. We matter. But respect doesn’t come from thin air. It comes from acknowledgment, fair pay, and emotional safety in the workplace.

I’ve reached a point where my body can’t take the classroom chaos anymore—but my heart hasn’t stopped beating for this profession. And each time I seek work that lets me mentor, create, train, or lead—I hear the same thing: “You don’t have experience.” Experience?! Was I not coordinating, managing, writing, designing, and problem-solving for years?

Let’s stop calling experience only what fits a job description. Give people a chance to grow into roles, not just apply to them.

And yes—I want to be paid. Paid not for being a babysitter of toddlers, but for being an expert in early childhood. Paid for my commitment, creativity, and depth. I’ve heard it too often: “It’s just small children, what do you even teach them?” You’d be surprised. We teach them how to be. How to feel safe. How to express. How to connect. That’s the foundation of everything that comes later.

So maybe, it’s time to close a chapter. But not with regret—with fire. I am one of many teachers who gave everything and were met with indifference. Who spoke up and were told to “adjust.” But let me tell you: I will not go quiet. I will not be replaced like a sock. I am not a follower. I’m a loud, proud, open-mouthed Polish woman who works hard, gives her heart, and deserves to be respected.

To all the early years warriors out there: I see you. You matter. And if the system won’t honour you, it’s the system that’s broken—not you.