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It’s early June and the afternoon air is crisp and cool, a gentle reprieve from the recent hot temperatures in Charlotte. I’m watching my new puppy’s fluffy black tail prancing happily ahead of me as I walk through my neighborhood, which is also the same neighborhood of the school I started 13 years ago, ALC Mosaic.

I tear my gaze away from Bella’s tail and look up at the leaves on the trees. I always do this on my walks. The trees are so tall, I love this about older neighborhoods. Something about seeing the leaves against the sky always reminds me to be present and grateful for this moment.

As I breathe in deeply and watch those leaves dancing in the slight breeze, I can tell that I am still riding high from a pretty monumental event that happened two weeks ago. I handed over a high school graduation diploma to a student who has been at our school from the time he was five years old. He’s the first student who has been here for all thirteen years at the time of his graduation. I met him at four, and his mother helped me start the school (and remains a core leader and facilitator in our community). As I assembled photos of his life for his graduation slideshow, I was transported back in time to all the moments of not only his life, but also mine. Our lives have been intertwined now for thirteen years, it’s impossible to completely separate them.

Memories came crashing through, like ocean waves knocking me over emotionally as I looked at each photo. Some memories were just so hard to relive of our school’s existence where I just wanted to run away from it all. Over and over again I had the thought, This is too hard. I can’t do this. The stress is going to take years off my life. I want to leave. While those thoughts happened year after year, I never left. Because amidst all the pain and challenge, it’s important for me to acknowledge and appreciate that I’ve also received immeasurable gifts from being part of this school.

I thought about the words I said to this student right before I handed over his diploma, “If it was all for you, it was worth it.” With every fiber of my being, these words were my truth and I meant it. Before me stood a human who I have witnessed grow from a little child who loved to get dirty in the woods, to a young man who is full of integrity, purpose, perseverance, discipline, and an incredible work ethic. That last one I really know because he’s been working as a facilitator part time for the past couple years!

So many memories, some of them so incredibly hard, sad, emotional. But then I see this young man and realize that this is what I set out to do in the beginning. I wanted to create a school that was more than any school I had experienced. I wanted to teach in a place that allowed space for deep relationships to develop, and not just with others, but with one’s own self. I wanted a school where a child, and the adults in it, didn’t have to create one persona for school and one for home. Where they could be their true authentic self all day. As I made that slideshow I saw that this person is exactly what I hoped and dreamed our school could cultivate and develop. Of course I know it is all worth it.

My attention then swings back to my little puppy, to the sidewalk, to the houses around me. Bella, my little black fluffball of a Pomeranian, is walking the pavement completely unencumbered by the experiences and memories I’m carrying along with me as we walk. I see the lightness in her trotting little paws as endorphins the graduation memories have given me slide through my body, I am back to walking. I pass houses that have witnessed my silent tears over the years when things felt completely overwhelming. This pavement is what Tomis, my husband, and I have used over the years as our place to talk, to share our dreams, where we want to go in life, what is bothering us.

I pass my son’s best friend’s house, a family who moved into the neighborhood and have become people in my life I cherish so dearly, people I associate with peace and hope for the school and my personal life. Next door is the home of another staff member of the school who recently moved in, someone who has added immeasurable value to our community. If I turn left, I’ll walk to my co-founder’s house, my other half, a woman I could never have done this without. She’s also the mother of our recent graduate. How many more homes will this neighborhood fill with school staff, I wonder?

For years I have walked these sidewalks and streets. Sometimes carrying the weight of grief, the overwhelm of working too much, or the highest highs of joy over living out a dream and life filled with purpose. Walking while pregnant, walking with a newborn, running alongside a child on a bike, walking alone, running alone. Walking with a friend, a husband. Walking, walking, walking.

And for most of those walks, the question running like water through my mind, swirling around as I processed whatever was currently happening in this school has been: Is it all worth it?

The short answer is yes, I know that without a doubt. But there’s so much more to it at times and I can’t help but to think about it all.

Was it all worth it?

Thirteen years of memories are there for me to reflect upon, to use as fuel to answer this question.

Was it all worth it?

I’m sobbing in my bedroom, my phone still in my hand after the call. I feel like the walls are closing in on me, and I will be crushed by the pain of it all. I’ve gotten too involved personally in a child’s life and I have to let them go. I’ve overstepped and crossed a line. Now I have to accept the consequences.

I wouldn’t speak to this child again until they were an adult, allowing years of time to pass before we processed what happened together.

Was it all worth it?

Babies are born in the circle of the sun, circle of the sun on birthing day. I’m watching a seven year student hold my baby boy in her lap during a birthday circle celebration, his eyes dancing with delight as young children walk around a mother earth figure as we sing our special song. I’m beginning to see the light after the lonely newborn phase. My son is participating in his first school event!

Was it all worth it?

Public arguments and disputes on our online communication platform from the school. My phone lights with notification after notification. Late nights, heart pounding. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep, will I ever sleep like a normal person again? Don’t look at the phone. Turn the notifications off. Don’t respond. Don’t respond. You’ll make it worse. As I think about this one, my heart rate picks up and I know I haven’t healed from this trauma yet.

Was it all worth it?

The weather is perfect for a field trip to the Asheboro zoo. We’ve seen the animals and are now in the children’s play area. My five year old son is playing with other children in the mud kitchen. No one needs me. I’m sitting in the shade in an Adirondack chair, watching, resting, absorbing. I’m so happy to just see them play. I get to be here, I think, Don’t forget this moment, don’t forget to be grateful that you get to be here. My son runs over to me with a bowl of ‘soup’ to try. I look at the mud dripping from his little hands, the dirt on his face, clothes. I go “Mmmmm, that soup is so good!” and I think, don’t forget this, don’t forget this.

Was it all worth it?

The alarm goes off. I’m tired, but I get myself out of bed. I have to run to the grocery store. Not the one across the street, it doesn’t open until 8:30. I have to drive to the one that opens at 7. I forgot to get ingredients for the recipe I’m making with the kids today. I can’t be late to school, two other facilitators are out sick. I have to have time before school to make a new game plan. I’m tired. Who will watch the play yard while I am cooking with the kids? Should I just cancel on them? No. I don’t want to do that. Make a plan, make a plan. Think about it while driving. Think about it while shopping. Think, think, think.

Thirteen years of memories to sift through. It’s like thinking about a past relationship, one you can romanticize or demonize. Through what lens do I want to remember it all? The truth is, it changes depending on the day. But today, walking Bella through the neighborhood, I’m at peace, with a side of feeling a bit melancholy or nostalgic.

Just like the school is growing up and doesn’t need me as much, so is my child. I got a puppy to ease that transition, a puppy who is looking back at me as she prances ahead, a balm for this mama’s heart. I live where I work, and I’m afforded the precious commodity of time to see and be with my child every day. I don’t miss out on his cool field trip experiences, I am there when he falls and skins his knee. I have summers with him, to learn to read or solve a rubik’s cube. We have a home, albeit quite small, but it is comfortable, safe, and we aren’t house-poor. I’m able to shop and buy the food we need and desire, good quality food. I’m able to take walks through this neighborhood, one that is shaded by tall trees, friendly neighbors, and access to a grocery store and some shops right across the street.

Was it all worth it?

I realize that this question is one any parent can answer. The school has been my first child. First it was a baby, and I had many sleepless nights as I did all that I could to keep it alive. Then it was a toddler, and there were moments of just complete chaos and nonsensical paths it went down, a mind that wasn’t fully formed or developed yet, trying to make sense of how to navigate. Then it was a child, and I can almost feel again the moments of pure innocence and freedom, moments in the sun where everything felt so right, so hopeful. I remember the prepubescent years, where there was anger, uncertainty for what direction to go in. And then there was full on puberty where we changed the school, keeping the underlying message of self-direction intact, but changing how we structured that to be supported. And now? Now I’m feeling like I’m standing on the precipice of steadiness, those years after puberty where you see a teenager becoming the person they will settle into being, always evolving of course, but with more grounding in who they truly are and maturity in how they respond and make decisions.

As a parent, there are moments of complete overwhelm, exhaustion, confusion. But then there is the joy and love that make you understand that you would never want to do life without this person.

So this question, right now, at this moment, I know the answer. I am quite sure there was no other way for my life to go. I have put forth this creation into the world and I have done my best to steward and care for it, despite moments of wanting to run away from it all. I can’t regret it, would I regret having a child? Of course not.

And I realize that this school will not always be a child, and actually it really isn’t a child anymore. It’s grown and now been out in the world long enough to cultivate deep relationships with others who love and care for it. As it grows up, I can lovingly step back and give it some room to grow. I pray and hope that the values I have instilled in it can stay rooted deeply in its existence. I can stay involved, be there every day, be there when it needs me, but I can change my relationship with it, just as any parent would need to do as their child grows older.

Okay so it was worth it. But now what?

Nine months ago, I started playing the piano again, something I haven’t made time to do in years. My fingers remember the smooth polish of the keys, and any time I see a piano I can’t resist playing. I play every day for a period of time, and then I teach children at school play. I hear melodies of Ode to Joy and Jingle Bells throughout the day. I’ve set up keyboards everywhere for the kids to play.

Three months ago I started making my own bread at home. I’m feeding sourdough starter, weighing ingredients, mixing, flour is everywhere. I’m listening to an audiobook and making dough, listening, present in the moment. I realize I’m not feeling panic, I’m not thinking about how I need to be doing something else productive for the school.

A couple weeks ago I picked up a paint brush and painted a picture for the first time in years. I let the kids at school watch. “Are you painting Bella?” they ask. “That looks like Bella!” they exclaim. I hang it up, and I’m so happy. I paint another one, a different style. “How do you do that?” they ask. I smile, I tell them I can help them do this too. We can all paint, would they like to do that with me one day?

The week before last I went camping just by myself. Okay, the puppy came too, but no kids came! I read, paint, hike. I cry because there are no kids there. I cry because I need to find a new way to live my life. I cry because I am healing and growing, and I can learn to change my relationship to the school. I can learn to live differently now that my young son is a child who wants to be and needs to be more independent. I hold my puppy close.

Perhaps now that my actual child and my metaphorical child are growing up and needing me less, I can make time to find old parts of myself again, the parts that were there before I started the school, before I became a mother. Perhaps I can be still more, quiet more, and discover new parts of myself that have been waiting to be noticed after all the years of learning through motherhood and stewardship of this school. Who is the woman I can now become?

Perhaps I can make space for friendships to develop, to rekindle past ones I let slide as life got too busy, and to figure out how to have relationships with others that aren’t centered around the fact that I am your child’s “teacher,” the founder of the school. Or maybe I learn that I’m really content just being alone and with my family. And of course my puppy.

Perhaps I can redevelop myself professionally. I never started the school thinking I would be a great administrator or leader of the school. I just had no school to teach in – I couldn’t see a place where I felt I could relate to children in an authentic way, and focus on what really matters in life. Now that I am not needed to run the school, to make sure it exists every day, perhaps now I can reap the fruits of my past labor. Now I have a school I feel aligned with to work in and I can focus on creating meaningful relationships and experiences with children instead of managing it. I really believe I’ll actually add more value in this capacity.

Have you started a school? What phase are you in? Has your journey felt like mine at all? And most importantly, I hope for you it was all worth it.