PEN Mondays - Don't Kill The Spark

6 min read

Welcome to Hogwarts, Kid

It’s the first week of school. You walk down the hallway sipping lukewarm coffee, and there they are - the first-year teacher. They’ve got 18 anchor charts in hand, an overstuffed tote bag with “TEACHER FUEL” embroidered in glittery thread, and that unmistakable glimmer in their eyes that says “This year is going to be amazing.”

You, on the other hand, just hope your copy code works and that your classroom lights don’t flicker like a haunted house again. Maybe you're also wondering if you left your sanity in the teacher’s lounge last year. That wide-eyed optimism can hit you like a truck, especially when you’re still recovering from last year’s chaos.

But let’s slow down for a second.

That new teacher? They’re living a moment they’ve dreamed about for years. They’ve arrived. They’re excited. And their joy isn’t naïveté - it’s hope.

And hope is not a bad thing to have floating around your building. In fact, it might be the most contagious thing we’ve got going in schools these days. When things feel heavy - standardized testing, curriculum changes, staff shortages - that little spark can remind us why we’re all here.

It’s not that new teachers don’t know it’s going to be hard. They’re just willing to believe it’ll be worth it. And isn’t that something we all used to believe, too?

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Don’t Be the Dementor

We’ve all heard it, maybe even said it:

We usually mean it as gallows humor. It’s our own battle-worn way of saying, “You’re going to need armor out here.” We tell ourselves we’re being realistic, or funny, or just passing along some wisdom.

But from the receiving end, it doesn’t sound like wisdom - it sounds like bitterness. And for a teacher who’s genuinely excited to be here, it can feel like someone just popped their balloon on purpose.

We have to ask ourselves: Are we preparing them… or pre-destroying them? Are we offering support, or just projecting pain?

New teachers will hit hard days on their own. The first time a parent email ruins their weekend. The first time a kid looks them in the eyes and lies. The first time they realize they forgot to hit save and lost three hours of planning.

Those moments will come. They always do. But they don’t need a doomsday countdown clock from the veteran crew.

Let them have their joy. Let them walk in without flinching. Let them be excited, because - let’s face it - we could all use more of that.

Advice Is Not a Curse

If you're a veteran, your experience is gold. You’ve lived through fire drills that turned into real fires, technology meltdowns that ended in interpretive dance lessons, and enough curriculum changes to make your head spin.

Share that wisdom. But share it like you want them to succeed, not like you’re betting they won’t.

It’s not helpful to say, “They’re going to eat you alive.” It is helpful to say, “Middle schoolers get wild before lunch - structure your day accordingly.”

There’s a difference between a warning and a curse. One invites them to prepare. The other shuts them down before they’ve even started.

Mentorship isn’t passive. It’s not just a “you’ll see” muttered at the copier. It’s walking alongside someone, not standing behind them with your arms crossed.

Think about what you needed in your first year. Someone to laugh with. Someone who remembered your name. Someone who noticed when you didn’t eat lunch because you were too overwhelmed. Be that person.

Your guidance doesn’t have to be grim. It can be practical, specific, encouraging — and maybe even funny. (“Always carry extra whiteboard markers. They disappear faster than your free time.”)

Borrow Some of Their Glow

Let’s be real: if their excitement makes you roll your eyes, it might not be them you’re annoyed with. It might be that you miss what it felt like to love this job that much.
And that’s okay. We’ve all had seasons when it felt like teaching was chewing us up and spitting us out into the parking lot.

But maybe that wide-eyed first-year down the hall is your chance to remember why you started. Maybe their joy is a soft little nudge toward yours.

You don’t have to fake enthusiasm. But you can lean into theirs. Ask them what they’re excited about. Let them show you their seating chart for the fifth time. Laugh with them. Let their spark light something in you that’s gone dim.

You’ve still got it in you - that light. That reason you keep showing up. But when it’s buried under committee meetings and parent conferences and late-night grading, you need someone to remind you.

It’s easy to scoff at hope when you’re tired. But sometimes, letting a little of it back in is exactly what we need. It’s not weakness - it’s revival.

The Flame Doesn’t Have to Die

Here’s the truth: not everyone ends up hating teaching. Some people do. And if that’s you, your feelings are valid.

But not everyone does.

Some of us stay. Some of us still laugh every time a kid calls us “mom” or asks if we live at the school. Some of us find meaning in the mess and peace in the small victories.

And the ones who do? They’re not superheroes. They’re not delusional. They’ve just learned how to sustain the spark - through boundaries, through community, through remembering the wins even when the losses feel heavy.

We don’t need to tell new teachers that joy will vanish. We can tell them how we keep ours alive. Or, if we’ve lost it, we can be honest about that too — without making them feel like fools for still holding on.

If they lose the spark, let it be on their terms. Let it be a journey, not a foregone conclusion.

Better yet, help them guard it. Protect it like it matters - because it does.

At the end of the day

New teachers don’t need to be shielded from the truth. But they also don’t need to be told that loving their job is a symptom of delusion.

Let them love it. Support them as they do. And if that joy fades - let them discover it in their own time. Not because you told them it would.

That spark is not a weakness. It’s a reminder.

And it might just be the thing that keeps you both going.

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