“Formal Observation.” Two words teachers dread. Unless you’re one who enjoys somebody sitting in the back of your classroom with an open laptop and 40 minutes to stare, I mean, spare. I love teaching, but I’ve never been particularly fond of the process of being critiqued on my craft.

Yesterday was different. My second graders were their uniquely usual selves. My administrator sat silently at the kidney-shaped teaching table, watching our every move. The lesson started exactly as I’d said it would during our pre-conference planning session. Nothing about Florida Standard ELA.2.R.1.4, “Identify Rhyme Scheme in Poems” was especially exciting, but I was excited!

You see, sometimes we cannot see growth or change, recovery or healing in ourselves when we are in the thick middle of survival. Sometimes we spend a season doing all the right things, never noticing the needle moving in the right direction. Until we do. And that’s exactly what happened to me yesterday as I taught my heart out for forty-five minutes in front of my principal.

What made my spirit sing wasn’t that my students actively participated and stayed on task (although that was nice). It wasn’t that they grasped the concept and took their assigned roles seriously during cooperative learning groups or that the child with the most challenging behavior was absent yesterday (a rare phenomenon indeed). No. It was the simple things. The things that weren’t prepopulated onto the observer’s district-approved checklist.

Immediately, I realized the differences between September’s observation and this one. Things I hadn’t noticed as the school year progressed. Things I’d hoped my principal hadn’t noticed either, although he was aware of my health issues when he hired me. If today’s observation checklist were written by me, it would look like this: 

• Teacher was able to remove the lid from her dry erase marker without asking a student for help.
• Teacher could grip the marker and lift her left arm high enough to write on the board.
• Teacher was able to sit on a low chair to read a story to her students who were seated on the carpet. 
• Teacher was able to stand up again after sitting in the low chair.
• Teacher walked without wincing.
• Teacher was able to use the stapler.
• Teacher carried a student chair for a short distance.
• Teacher bent down to pick up a dead spider with a tissue. 

As our lesson on rhyme scheme unfolded, I was able to perform the task of teaching almost seamlessly because my physical body did things I was unable to do when the school year started. I couldn’t keep my smile from escaping as I moved through the lesson, acting like a normal person. By the time our principal thanked me and walked out the door, happy tears gathered in the corners of my eyes. I felt hopeful for the first time in a long, long time.

Starting in 2019, when Covid first got me, a series of circumstances stacked against me. Before the virus became famous, I was its victim. The second attack was worse, with a fever so high my hair literally curled. Between a knee injury that resulted in surgery and a third round with Covid, by 2024 my body was unrecognizable in the mirror. When school started last August, one of my first graders pressed a protruding bone on my wrist asking, “Mrs. V., why are you so skinny with your bones sticking out all over the place?”

“Yeah,” a red-headed girl piped in, “you need to go to the gym and eat some asparagus.” A wave of agreement swept through our classroom as the children shared their honest unsolicited opinions about my appearance and overall health. When I had to seek help taking the cap off a marker, their suspicions were only confirmed. When I shared the anecdote with my sister that afternoon she lovingly said,  “Eat something, Sis. Stop scaring the children. Nobody wants the Crypt Keeper for their first grade teacher.”

I was eating, but everything I consumed seemed to increase my inflammation and overall pain. I’d been diagnosed with an autoimmune disease that nearly destroyed my mobility. Nobody could tell me why my muscle mass disappeared. One physical therapist asked if I had lost more than 100 pounds. I hadn’t, but the way my skin sagged made me look as if I had.

Nine pounds up, eight months down and thirty thousand out-of-pocket dollars later, I can finally see some light at the end of this longhauler’s tunnel. I found a doctor in Miami who thinks outside the box. After three treatments and strict adherence to his “no gluten, no dairy, no bad oils and NOTHING sweet, not even fruit” regimen, my sed rate is down to 45 from 120. That means my body still has inflammation, but at least it isn’t attacking itself so hard. 

I can move without crying and brush my teeth with my dominant hand. Hope is unfurling as normal activities become routine again. My Honey was so kind to help with all the things I couldn’t do independently, but I’m thrilled to be able to dress myself, buckle my seatbelt, and put a clip in my own hair. I still can’t make a ponytail, or use the flat iron, but I have faith that one day I will. (He’s a great husband, but maybe not the best hairdresser. Please don’t tell him I said that.) It takes a real pro to handle this mop of almost-curls left behind by Covid. If you’ve seen me around looking like Jon Bon Jovi singing “Bad Medicine” on MTV, now you’ll understand why.

My purpose in sharing this isn’t to garner sympathy, but rather to encourage anyone out there to keep doing the next best thing, even if you don’t see immediate results. Whether you are trying to lose or gain weight, quit a habit that’s slowly killing you, draw a boundary on a toxic relationship or battle an illness—don’t give up on yourself. When you’d rather stay in bed, move. When that sugar comes calling, block the call. When the narcissist baits you, keep swimming. One little win at a time leads to victory. 

If you ask Jesus, He will help you. Even if you are too angry, hurt or sad to ask Him, He will still help you. That’s who He is. He has promised to “never leave nor forsake us” (Hebrews 13:5). Whatever it is, we don’t travel alone. Reach up, my friend. He’s there. He will see you through the poo, just like He’s seeing me through. He is changing us, healing us, restoring us one baby step at a time. At least that’s MY observation.