From Compliance to Compassion:
How Parenting Transformed My Practice

I took a deep breath and willed myself to leave my car. I had considered going back home several times. In the distance, I could hear the buses pulling up in the next parking lot, preparing to deliver a herd of chattering, excited students. They were eager to begin a new day of learning with their friends. I, however, was bracing myself for yet another day of challenges. Well, one challenge in particular.

Brianna was a 7-year-old girl with beautiful mocha skin and hair that clicked and clacked as the beads in her braids moved with each step. She was bright in ways that didn’t always show up on paper. But she struggled—struggled to complete her work, make friends, contain her aggression, and simply be in our classroom.

Knowing the time had come, I heaved a weary sigh, got out of my car, and began gathering the multitude of teacher bags from my backseat—bags filled with the work I had taken home and, more often than not, returned unfinished. My boots clicked across the tiled floors as I reached my classroom. I turned on the lights and began to prepare for the day, unsure what it would hold—but deeply aware it would likely bring more tears from students being hit, bit, or kicked, more destroyed supplies I couldn’t afford to replace, and more missed lessons that would need to be made up before testing season arrived.

I sat at my desk, emotionally exhausted and confused. Why couldn’t I get Brianna to follow the rules, routines, and procedures that made my structured classroom work smoothly for everyone else? I knew something needed to change. But I didn’t yet know what.

In my early years as a first-grade teacher, I found comfort in my identity as a highly organized, structured educator. Each day began with a posted agenda. Students knew the expectations and consequences if a rule was broken: a clip moved, a note home, and time lost from recess. This structure supported students, and, in many ways, it did. But students like Brianna didn’t fit into the system I had built. I took their behavior personally. I believed they were giving me a hard time, not having a hard time.

Years later, everything shifted.

My husband and I welcomed our first son, Cooper, into the world. Like many new parents, we did all the right things—read the books, followed the advice, asked the questions. Still, we quickly learned that parenting was a hard, sleepless labor of love. As the months passed, our concerns about Cooper’s development grew. He wasn’t meeting milestones: he didn’t crawl on time, walk, or speak many words. By age three, he could identify letters and numbers, and he loved taking toys apart and putting them back together. But he couldn’t use words to express his needs and was hesitant to engage with other children.

Eventually, I contacted the local school district to request a speech screening. I was nervous but hopeful. They may have the key we needed to help him.

Once again, I sat in a school parking lot, taking a deep breath and willing myself to get out of the car. I considered going home more than once. But I finally sighed, unbuckled his seatbelt, and took his small hand in mine. We walked into the building together.

Inside, I met with a speech therapist and a special education teacher. I shared my concern, not only about his speech but about the possibility of autism. I asked if he could be evaluated for that as well. I watched them interact with Cooper through play-based assessments, noting his responses, focus, and reactions. At the end, the teacher gently handed me paperwork for further evaluations and said, carefully, “While I can’t make an official diagnosis, I did notice several characteristics consistent with autism.”

At that moment, I knew our lives were changing. But what I didn’t realize yet was how much I would change—how this journey with my son would reshape who I was, not just as a mother but also as a teacher.

Over time, I became more intentional, not just about how I taught but also about why. I realized that my purpose was never to manage a classroom into quiet compliance but to create a space where every child felt safe enough to learn, fail, try again, and belong. That understanding reshaped everything—from how I responded to outbursts to how I structured lessons and collaborated with families.

I found myself paying closer attention to things I used to miss. The student who always asked to go to the nurse after recess? He was avoiding overwhelming transitions. The child who ripped her paper and pushed her chair? She was frustrated, not defiant—she needed help regulating, not punishment. I started seeing the why behind the behavior before reacting to the what. She wasn’t giving me a hard time—she was having a hard time. I needed to be the teacher who saw the difference.

My classroom no longer ran like clockwork; honestly, I’m glad it didn’t. It became a dynamic, flexible space that made room for humanity. I introduced visual schedules, sensory tools, calm-down corners, and movement breaks—not just for one student but for everyone. What began as accommodations became best practices.

Just like at home, I learned that progress didn’t always look like perfection. Some days still ended in tears—mine or theirs. But I stopped measuring success by how quiet the room was and instead by whether my students felt safe, seen, and supported.

The transformation wasn’t easy. There were moments when I questioned if I was doing enough for my students, Cooper, or myself. But every breakthrough, no matter how small, reminded me why I kept going. The first time Cooper used words to tell me how he felt. The first time a struggling student made it through a reading group without disrupting. The day a parent looked me in the eye and said, “Thank you for not giving up on my child, even when it was tough.”

That’s the moment I knew—this is who I was always meant to be. Not just a teacher of reading and writing, but a builder of bridges. A connector of hearts. An advocate. A listener.

When you have a child who sees the world differently, you start to see everything differently. And once you’ve seen it, you can’t go back.

You lead with empathy.
You teach with intention.
You love without condition.

And that changes everything.