The Dreamer's Pen

I still can’t believe it. I mean that literally. I’m a college professor now. The word professor is actually in my job title and every single time I see it, my brain short circuits. I stare at it. I reread it. I wait for someone to tell me there’s been a mistake. Because surely they don’t mean me, right?

But they do!

I know that a job title is just a job title. It’s not a personality trait. It doesn’t magically transform you into some tweed wearing academic wizard. But every time I see that word attached to my name, it feels like a pinch me moment all over again. I shouldn’t overthink it, but here we are. Overthinking is kind of my brand.

What hits me hardest is my mom. I know that without question she would be so proud of me. Like, obnoxiously proud. She would have told everyone. Strangers in the grocery store. Cashiers. The mail man. She would have said my name with that specific tone that meant “this is my kid and look what she did!” Thinking about that makes my chest ache in that sharp but sweet way that grief does when it’s mixed with pride.She would have loved this moment.

The Autonomy Is Still Shocking to Me

One of the things that continues to surprise me is the level of autonomy I have as a professor. I can be creative. I can build lesson plans that actually make sense to me. I can decide what I want to cover, how I want to cover it, and how I want students to engage with the material. I can experiment. I can try things, adjust things, scrap things entirely if they don’t work. That kind of freedom is intoxicating.

It’s especially shocking because my other job is in where structure, precision, and consistency are everything. It’s still a position within higher education, however, creativity is not the goal. Innovation is fine but only inside very clearly defined guardrails. So stepping into a space where collaboration, brainstorming, and experimentation are not only allowed but encouraged feels surreal.

The department I’m working with is collaborative in a way that feels genuinely refreshing. We talk. We debate. We brainstorm. We try new things. We reflect on what works and what doesn’t. It feels alive. It feels thoughtful. And for someone like me – someone who thrives on ideas, structure and imagination – it feels like oxygen.

Yes, I’m Also a Student Again (Apparently I Enjoy Suffering)

In addition to teaching, I also enrolled in school again. I’m working on my graduate certificate in TESOL. Because apparently one job wasn’t enough and apparently I enjoy chaos.

But the truth is, I’ve always been like this. I love learning. I love college. I love academia. If college were affordable in the United States, I would be a lifelong student without hesitation. I love reading, researching, writing papers, doing projects, and falling down academic rabbit holes. Homework doesn’t scare me. It excites me. This probably makes me sound like a sadist, and honestly? Maybe I am a little.

I wasn’t always good at school. High school, in particular was rough. I was bullied badly. I was deeply unpopular. Nerdy. Awkward. Socially invisible. If you’ve ever seen The Middle and watched Sue Heck fumble her way through school or Josie from Never Been Kissed – that was me. Painfully so.

My high school was under resourced, my family didn’t have much money, and I struggled academically and socially. A lot.

But college changed everything. College was the first place where I felt like I belonged. Where being curious wasn’t weird. Where thinking deeply wasn’t a liability. Where my brain finally felt like an asset instead of a problem. That’s where I found myself.

I’m the first person in my family to graduate from college in the United States. (My mom’s niece in Germany has a PhD in archaeology, which is incredibly cool, but on my dad’s side, I’m it.) I also have a master’s degree, which I rarely talk about. I don’t wear it like a badge. I didn’t earn it to impress anyone. I earned it to prove to myself that I could do something hard and see it through.

Now, being on the other side of the classroom, supporting students, guiding them, helping them see what they’re capable of—feels incredibly meaningful. Exhausting, yes. But meaningful in a way that settles deep in my bones.