Three years ago, I walked into my school in a completely new role. I wasn't a science teacher anymore. I wasn't a special education teacher anymore. I was the school counselor, or at least, I was becoming one.
Here's the thing: I don't have my master's yet. I'm still in my school counseling program, working toward certification while doing the job every single day. And honestly? That's made this journey even richer.
Let me be real: going from teaching to counseling is not a small shift.
As a teacher, my job was to plan, instruct, manage, assess, and move 25+ students toward a goal. As a counselor, my job is to listen, sit with silence, ask hard questions, and walk alongside students through things no lesson plan can prepare you for.
I traded lab reports for feelings charts. IEP meetings for crisis calls. Lesson plans for small groups about friendship and grief.
And I wouldn't trade it back for anything.
The Challenges
Learning on the job—literally.
Taking graduate courses while working full-time in the role I'm training for has been difficult at times. Some days I'm in class learning theory, and the next morning I'm in a real crisis with a real kid. The learning curve is steep, but the classroom (and the hallway, and the cafeteria, and the playground) has been my best teacher.
Letting go of the teacher brain.
I spent years trained to fix, correct, and instruct. Counseling asks something different. It asks me to slow down, to not have the answer, to trust the process. That shift took time, and I'm still working on it.
There's never enough time. I could clone myself three times and still not reach every student, teacher, or parent who needs something. Learning to prioritize, and accept my limits, is ongoing.
The weight is real.
Kids trust me with big things. Loss, divorce, food insecurity, anxiety, scary things at home. I carry those stories with me. Learning how to hold space for others without losing myself has been a journey.
Crisis doesn't follow a schedule.
I've had lessons planned and groups ready, only to have a student in crisis walk through my door at 8:05 a.m. Flexibility isn't just a nice skill here. It's a requirement.
The Rewards
The students.
The first-grader who finally used her words instead of her hands. The fifth-grader who told me, "You're the only one who gets it." The kindergartener who drew me a rainbow because "you make me feel better." These moments are what I love!
The parents.
I've had some of the most meaningful conversations of my career with parents who were scared, frustrated, or at the end of their rope, and who trusted me enough to partner with them. Watching a family find their footing has been an honor.
The faculty and staff.
My teachers are heroes. They notice the kid who's off before anyone else does. They send students my way with a gentle, "I think you should go see Mrs. Carridine." They check on me, too. My background in special ed and science helps me collaborate with them in ways I never expected, I understand their world because I lived it.
My teaching background is a superpower.
I know what it's like to have 25 students and no time to breathe. I know what an IEP meeting feels like from the other side of the table. I know how to talk to teachers because I was one. That credibility has been invaluable, and it's something I'll carry with me forever.
The growth—mine included.
I'm not the counselor I was three years ago. I'm calmer. I listen better. I ask better questions. I've learned that sometimes sitting in silence with a student is more powerful than any intervention I could name.



