When I started this blog, I told myself it would be a space for reflection, honesty, and creativity—a place to document and untangle the experience of teaching art to elementary students through the lens of personal growth. But after a few weeks of intense classroom challenges, the lessons were coming in faster than I could write them down.
So I hit pause. Not because I wanted to, I needed to, for them.
It wasn’t burnout exactly. It was immersion. The kind of full-body, all-systems-engaged mode you shift into when you’re learning in real time—when you’re in the thick of it, and your priority becomes the kids in front of you, not your word count. In our area, the art, music, library, and physical education departments are called the “Unified Arts”, I’ve also heard us referred to as, “the specials”, not just because we each specialize in one specific area, but (I assume) because the students tend to think of their time with us as, well… special. Not only that, they get the enormous privilege (and sometimes challenge) of meeting, teaching, and working with every student, in every class, every year. That’s hundreds of names, backgrounds, accommodations, tailored learning plans, and sudden life changes coming into our spaces every week.
When the Plan Fails
Over these past few weeks, I’ve learned that one of the most critical skills in teaching—especially in an art room that serves every class in the building—is knowing when it’s time to pivot. Sometimes, it’s not even about recognizing a failed lesson plan. It’s about reading the room, seeing what’s happening beneath the surface, and knowing when to shift, adjust, or throw out the plan altogether.
The chemistry of each class is wildly different. What works for one fourth-grade class might unravel another in minutes. These kids are navigating so much more than schoolwork—grief, neglect, rigid home expectations, lack of home expectations, sibling rivalry, learning differences, friendship drama, emotional dysregulation. Art gives them space to process that. But sometimes, the very freedom that makes it healing also makes it volatile.
Paint, Power, and the Pivot
A few weeks ago, I gave a student the freedom to paint her hand—a moment of curiosity that opened a door. She didn’t move on with it, the freedom to try it had satiated her curiosity. But something did shift in her after that. She felt freer, bolder, more willing to explore.
That small gesture, rooted in trust, could have ignited a lifelong love of experimentation. But trust is risky. Because sometimes it does go sideways.
Case in point: One second-grade class—typically sweet and fairly well-mannered—wanted to make Mother’s Day paintings. Seemed simple enough.
Instead, one girl smeared red paint into a classmate’s hair. Another boy slathered his hands in black paint and began clapping them together like cymbals. Soon it was a full-blown paint fight. I was elbow-deep rinsing paint out of hair, shouting instructions over screams, trying to find some shred of order in the chaos. Then I heard: “I’m bleeding!”
Yep. Horsing around led to a split lip.
At that moment, I had to pivot—hard. I had given clear expectations. I’d even modeled the flexibility I was allowing: finger painting is okay when there’s a purpose. But my words were ignored. My trust, misplaced. The chaos escalated fast, and I found myself raising my voice, saying things I didn’t want to say, and sounding like someone I swore I’d never become.
That night, I questioned everything.
Authority and Its Echoes
I’ve spent most of my life trying not to embody the authoritarian voices that shaped me. The ones that made me feel like curiosity was dangerous and freedom was a liability, the ones that taught me to not bother trying to be an authority in anything because those I believed had authority made it very clear to me that I had none. Gentle doesn’t always mean permissive, and structure isn’t inherently oppressive. Sometimes authority is exactly what’s needed—not to suppress, but to contain.
I later learned that one of the students I was having difficulty with in particular was probably feeling a severe sense of loss and grief due to circumstances I won’t describe with specificity. But suddenly being in a space, surrounded by reminders of absence and perhaps not knowing the best way to react, did so the only way they could at the time, whether it’s what they intended or not. A space for art, and expression, the place meant to help process and heal, had instantaneously become a trigger.
That’s the paradox of teaching. You’re constantly toggling between holding boundaries and holding space. Between being the one who says “enough” and the one who says “I see you.”
You’re Not Going to Save Them
There was one class that left me utterly defeated. Behavioral outbursts, manipulative social dynamics, chaos disguised as curiosity. For weeks I tried every strategy I knew— vulnerability, pep-talks, honesty, sensory tools, choice-based engagement, calm music.
Still, it felt like I was losing ground.
One day, after school, I tracked down their classroom teacher. I must’ve looked drained—one foot in problem-solving mode, the other in self-doubt. I started listing off ideas, wondering aloud if I was doing something wrong. I was halfway through my mental spreadsheet of possible interventions when she stopped me.
She looked me dead in the eye and said, gently but firmly:
“It’s going to sound harsh, but you’re not going to save them—not with only five weeks of school left.”
And it hit me—not like a slap, but like a release. She saw me. She heard what I wasn’t saying out loud. And she gave me exactly what I needed: permission to stop trying to be everything to everyone.
She reminded me of the tools I do have.
“Give them a task. Set a time limit. Check in. Give them the next step. Let them listen to music. Tighten the grip—but don’t take the freedom away entirely. Call the behavior team for help, I do it all the time.”
It was exactly the kind of grounded wisdom and experienced honesty I needed in that moment—not a call to give up, but a call to let go of the savior complex and root myself in what’s real and actionable. I won’t recount her own struggles or the details of the backstories associated with her very unique classroom, but I will say, she deserves the best summer ever.
Teaching Is an Art of Letting Go
Pivoting isn’t a sign of failure. It’s a sign of responsiveness. Of humility. Of honoring the reality in front of you instead of clinging to the one you hoped for.
Some days, the pivot means loosening the reins. Other days, it means tightening them. Some days, it’s letting a kid paint their hand. Other days, it’s rinsing paint out of hair, patching up a bloody lip, and escorting kids out of the room. Some days, it’s getting out the glitter. Other days, it’s getting out the cold compress.
This is the art of teaching.
It’s not about perfectly planned lessons. It’s about showing up. It’s about being flexible without breaking, firm without hardening. It’s about remembering that you can’t control everything, but you can choose how you respond.
And sometimes, the pivot is the plan.
Want to Reflect With Me?
Have you had to pivot lately—at work, in your art, or in your relationships?
What did it teach you?
Drop a comment below or share this post with someone who needs a reminder that change isn’t failure—it’s growth.
If you’re an educator or a creative navigating chaos, let’s talk. You’re not alone, and you don’t have to save everyone to make a difference.
Leave a Reply