6 Days In: Building a School Feels a Lot Like Assembling an IKEA Christmas Tree

Six days in, and I’ve already hosted more pity parties than staff meetings…mostly because there is no staff.

What I’ve really learned is that I’m not just pivoting education, I’m pivoting me. Six days in, and I feel like a kid wobbling on roller skates, lots of near-crashes, but still moving forward. I’m not the “all-knowing teacher at the front of the room.” I’m the still-learning adult figuring things out right alongside the kids. It’s uncomfortable, often hilarious, and exactly what this work is supposed to be.

Things I’ve Learned in Six Days

• Independent work is way too fast.
  My older kids are blazing through lessons like they’re trying to win a prize I didn’t offer. I’ve doubled their independent lessons just so I feel like something got done. Is it fair? Debatable. But it beats them finishing everything before lunch and staring at me like, “Now what?”

• Projects End Too Fast.
  Because the projects go so fast, I can grab questions from the “chatterbox” on the fly to stretch them out. Those questions push the kids to dig deeper and think harder, way better than me parking them on IXL just to fill the time. And without the endless transitions of traditional school, they actually have the space to follow those questions and keep the work moving.

• Bad curriculum? Bye.
  Our science curriculum sucks. I gave it six days, which is about five and a half more than it deserved. The perk of running a microschool? We can pivot next week instead of pretending it’s fine until May.

• The little wins matter.
  My littles are catching more “aha!” moments because I can stop mid-lesson, reteach, and fix things before they snowball. It feels way better than ignoring mistakes and letting them turn into “I hate reading” three weeks later.

• Field trips can be “just because.”
  We went to a splash pad for no reason other than fun. No, it wasn’t “academic.” Yes, it was 100% worth it. They’re still kids. And I needed a little parent-to-parent park therapy myself.

• I can’t teach everything. And that’s fine.
  Middle school math? Hard pass. Nerdy math-loving parent? Please, be my guest. Asking for help doesn’t make me a bad teacher, it makes me smart enough to outsource algebra. And honestly, I don’t think that parent assumes I’m an idiot just because “mathing” past elementary isn’t my strong suit (understatement). I can’t be sure though.

• Wearing all the hats is chaotic but freeing.
  Teacher, principal, instructional coach, snack lady, field trip planner — I do it all. Which is totally fine, except HR keeps ignoring my complaints about HR. The upside? I don’t have to follow a bell schedule. If something bombs, we pivot. If something clicks, we camp out there longer. Equal parts terrifying and liberating.

• Kids love to think.
  Remember those conundrums I wrote about a few weeks ago, the ones I planned to do once a day? Turns out, once isn’t enough for them. They beg for them multiple times a day, even during lunch and breaks. And really, who am I to tell them no to thinking and sharing? Their answers swing from brilliant to bizarre, but they always beat the robotic replies a test-prep worksheet would spit out.

• Mixed-age classrooms can work.
  I’ll admit, I worried about juggling littles and bigs in the same space. But it’s turning out to be an advantage. The older kids model, explain, and sometimes even teach the younger ones, which cements their own understanding. And the younger kids? They rise to the challenge because they don’t want to be “the baby” in the room. It’s not chaos it’s collaboration.

• Learning seems to stick.
  Every day, I ask the kids to tell me one thing they learned, and every day they can give me a legit answer. And when I ask their favorite part of the day? Their answers are typically about actual learning.That’s new.

Six days in, and I feel like someone trying to assemble an IKEA Christmas tree — confused, missing pieces, and wondering if this thing will ever stand up straight. But practice makes better, and every misstep is teaching me how to help these kids grow into their real potential.

Not the standardized-test-approved version of potential. The messy, weird, glorious kind that actually fits them.

Next year will probably look nothing like this one. Honestly? Good. That means we’re doing what we said we would: pivoting when needed, laughing at the chaos, and building something that works for kids and the still-learning adult running the whole show.