“Do you remember…?”
Whenever I hear that phrase, my mind automatically fills in the rest: the 21st night of September.
Earth, Wind & Fire trained us well.
So…September.
The “-ber” months have begun.
No. It is not fall yet.
I live in Georgia. It is definitely still summer—at least the weather thinks so.
For much of the country, though, the word September itself sounds like fall. Pumpkins are appearing on porches. Stores have moved on to sweaters and boots. People are ordering pumpkin-spice everything and talking about crisp mornings, changing leaves, and football weather.
Here in Georgia, it’s still hot.
Very hot.
September may be printed on the calendar, but summer hasn’t gotten the message.
And maybe that’s appropriate, because September doesn’t quite feel like fall to teachers either.
For teachers, September is still new.
Depending on where you teach, today may be your first day of school. Somewhere else, teachers and students have already been together for a month. But regardless of when the school year began, September is usually still part of the beginning.
You’re still learning names.
And not just the names on the roster. You’re learning your students.
You’re discovering who will answer every question whether she knows the answer or not. Who knows the answer but won’t raise his hand. Who needs to sit closer to you. Who absolutely cannot sit beside whom. Who needs directions twice. Who finishes everything early. Who makes everyone laugh. Who is going to test every boundary you’ve established just to make sure you really meant it.
You’re learning which class can handle an activity that requires movement and which class should perhaps remain seated until further notice.
You’re learning parents and colleagues and schedules and meetings and new policies. You’re figuring out which routines work beautifully in the classroom and which brilliant August idea lasted approximately three days.
And while you’re learning your students, they’re learning you.
Does she really mean it when she says the assignment is due Friday?
Will he notice if I don’t do it?
What happens if I break this rule?
Is this a safe place to make a mistake?
Does my teacher like me?
Does my teacher see me?
Can I trust this person?
That’s a lot happening in a classroom before we even get to the curriculum.
No wonder September is exhausting.
Early in my teaching career, I remember standing in the shower one morning already thinking about school.
The day hadn’t even started, and my mind was running through everything waiting for me. What did I need to do when I got there? What was I teaching that day? Was that lesson going to work? What about that student? Had I remembered to make those copies? What needed to change before I taught the lesson again?
And I remember standing there thinking, Does this ever go away? Does school ever leave your head?
After all these years, I know the answer.
Not really.
Teaching creates a kind of constant hum in the background of your brain. Even when you’re not at school, part of you is noticing, planning, wondering, remembering, solving. You see something in a store and think, I could use that in my classroom. You wake up with an idea for a lesson. A student crosses your mind while you’re having dinner.
Sometimes the hum gets louder because there’s something you really do need to act on.
But sometimes you have to choose not to.
That’s something I didn’t understand when I was the young teacher standing in that shower. I thought eventually I would get everything done and my teacher brain would finally become quiet.
Instead, I learned that part of becoming an experienced teacher is recognizing that not every thought requires an action. Not every problem has to be solved tonight. Not every good idea has to become tomorrow’s lesson.
The hum may still be there. You just get better at deciding when to listen to it—and when to let it hum while you live the rest of your life.
However…as you get older, you may want to keep a little notepad nearby. Otherwise, by the time you decide that brilliant lesson idea really was worth acting on, you may have absolutely no idea what it was.
And in September, that hum can feel particularly loud.
So much still requires conscious thought. You’re still learning names, adjusting seating charts, establishing routines, figuring out personalities, tweaking lessons, and discovering that this year’s third period is nothing like last year’s third period.
Nothing feels automatic yet.
But it will.
By October, something usually begins to change. The names come without looking at the seating chart. The routines require fewer reminders. You know that third period needs a little more structure and fifth period needs a little more grace. You’ve discovered which lesson absolutely does not work, no matter how wonderful it looked when you planned it.
The day begins to develop a rhythm.
You will too.
But you’re not there yet.
It’s September.
So if you’re exhausted right now, that doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong. If your classroom doesn’t yet look like the classroom you imagined in August, that doesn’t mean it won’t. If you’re still adjusting a procedure, moving seats, changing a lesson, learning a name, figuring out a student, or wondering why something that worked perfectly last year is absolutely not working with this group—you’re not behind.
You’re learning.
So are they.
There is something I wish teachers gave themselves more permission to do in September:
Let September be September.
You don’t have to have the entire year figured out yet. You don’t have to know exactly what every student needs. You don’t have to have every routine running perfectly. You don’t have to fix every problem you’ve noticed in the first few weeks.
Pay attention. Learn. Adjust.
Be consistent where consistency matters and flexible where flexibility is needed.
Most importantly, keep getting to know the people sitting in front of you.
Because right now, while you’re worried about pacing guides and lesson plans and assessments and procedures, something much more important is quietly happening.
A room full of strangers is becoming a class.
And you are becoming their teacher.
That doesn’t happen on the first day of school. It happens one name, one conversation, one correction, one laugh, one difficult day, one second chance, and one ordinary Tuesday at a time.
October will come.
The weather here in Georgia may or may not cooperate.
But eventually, you’ll walk into your classroom and realize you aren’t thinking quite so hard about every little thing anymore. You’ll call a student’s name without searching your memory. Students will begin a routine without being told. You’ll know exactly who needs a glance from across the room and who needs you to walk over and quietly ask what’s wrong.
You’ll realize that somewhere along the way, the newness started becoming normal.
Until then, teacher, give yourself some grace.
It’s only September.
