Teacher by day, writer by heart

There is a particular moment at the end of the school day that always stays with me. When the classroom empties out and the leftover hum of energy settles into quiet, I often sit at my desk for a few minutes and breathe. That silence after the storm, that stillness, is where stories begin for me.

My name is Kelsey, and I am a teacher. That is the role I carry every weekday morning. I prepare lessons. I tie shoelaces. I answer questions both expected and unexpected. I spend my hours guiding curious minds, gently redirecting distracted ones, and trying to hold space for the emotions of a roomful of children who are learning not just math or reading, but how to be in the world.

But when the bell rings, another part of me comes forward. That part has always been there. The one that pays attention to the small things. The way a child looks out the window on a rainy day. The questions they ask when they think no one is listening. The quiet moment when a student hesitates before turning the page of a book because they are not ready to leave the world they have entered. These moments gather. They stack up inside me like blocks, waiting to become something more. That something is usually a story.

I did not start writing stories for children because I thought I had something grand to say. In fact, I started writing because I noticed the opposite. So many of the stories being handed to children were loud. Bright. Fast. Everything seemed exaggerated. I remember thinking, where are the quiet ones? The gentle ones? The stories that let children just be, rather than push them toward something?

It began slowly. I would write on the weekends, during school breaks, sometimes late at night. Short pieces at first. A girl who finds a talking tree in her backyard. A boy who worries so much that he starts carrying his thoughts around in jars. A cat who listens to bedtime fears. I shared a few with my students, and their reactions surprised me. They listened. They asked questions. They related.

What really struck me was not that they enjoyed the stories, but that they recognized something in them. As if the stories gave them permission to name what they were already feeling. One child said, "This story is about me, even though it is not me." That felt important.

Teaching gives me a front-row seat to the emotional world of children. Writing lets me respond to it in a different language. I started to notice more clearly how many children carry quiet worries. They are learning so much every day. Not just subjects, but social rules, unspoken expectations, how to express big emotions with small vocabularies. Gentle stories do not fix these things. But they offer comfort. They give a child space to see themselves reflected and feel less alone.

Of course, writing as a teacher has its challenges. There are days I am too tired to even think about creating. There are weeks when grading and planning leave no room for anything else. But then there are also moments when I hear a child say something that sparks an entire plot. Or I watch a playground scene unfold like a dialogue between characters. My classroom has become both inspiration and audience.

One of the more unexpected things that has helped me in this journey is reading outside my usual space. I try to stay open to all kinds of stories, including those far removed from my own experience. I recently came across this fascinating profile on a K-pop artist who has built a creative world of his own. What caught my attention was not just his background, but the way he seemed to hold space for dual identities. Performer and person. Stage and self. In a strange way, it reminded me of being a teacher and a writer. Two roles that seem separate but are deeply connected.

Children respond to authenticity. They know when someone is not being real with them. That is why I try to write stories that reflect truth, even in fantasy. The truth of feeling scared. The truth of being curious. The truth of having a big feeling and not knowing what to do with it. These are the threads that run through my classroom and my writing desk.

Over time, I have stopped asking myself whether I am more of a teacher or more of a writer. I have come to see that one feeds the other. Teaching keeps me grounded in the lives of real children. Writing gives me a way to translate that experience into something lasting. Something a child can hold, revisit, and grow with.

I do not know where this path will take me next. Maybe a book. Maybe more stories whispered between lesson plans. But I do know that as long as there are children asking big questions in small voices, I will keep writing. Not to answer them. Just to sit beside them in wonder, with a story in hand.