To the Ag Teacher Who Isn’t Excited about Coming Back to School This Year...

There came a time in my career when the thought of going back to teaching every day didn’t bring excitement — it brought dread. I wasn’t counting down the days with anticipation; I was counting them in panic attacks.

For years, I poured my heart into my program, my students, and my community. I told myself, This is a family. This is a lifestyle. But what happens when the “family” starts acting like a clique?

In ag ed, we love to say We’re a family — but sometimes, that “family” will shut you out the second you stop fitting their mold. If you’ve felt the sting of being judged, excluded, or gossiped about by the very people who should lift you up… you’re not alone.

So if you’re sitting there right now, not excited for the year ahead — or not going back at all — and you’re feeling those mean-girl vibes, I need you to hear me: You are not broken. You are not lazy. And you are certainly not the only one.

No one knows your full story. They didn’t see the seasons you’ve survived.

Here’s part of mine.

I faced years of coworker tension, FFA drama, and whispered accusations. My first year of teaching, my co-teacher accused me of stealing money because our district said only one of us could stay and she was in survival mode. It wasn’t true — and it was proven false — but the damage was done.

The next year, my former high school ag teachers told me I wasn’t preparing students well enough, even though my students scored above the state average and I had only been teaching there for 6 months before they took their exam. In another district, I was accused of being “unprofessional” and “hard to work with.” because I stood up for our students. But the gaslighting, the manipulation — it almost cost me my life and caused me to become the worst possible version of myself.

Over and over again, people assumed the worst without ever asking for the truth.

Eventually, I stepped away from the secondary classroom and into industry. For a moment, I thought I’d found a healthier pace. Then the company went bankrupt. Around the same time, my husband started traveling out of state every week to grow his company. Starting a brand-new career while he was gone and my kids were in school wasn’t what my family needed.

So I turned to something I’d always dreamed of — I finally had time to design lessons, activities, and seasonal bundles the way I always wanted. And yes, I heard the comments:

"If it’s on TPT, it’s not professional enough.”

"You can’t be a good teacher, spouse, or parent and do well on TPT."

But here’s the truth — most of my TPT work happened when I wasn’t in the classroom. I had time. I had space. I needed to contribute financially and emotionally. And my brain? It thrives on creativity and serving others.

TPT wasn’t a shortcut or a money grab — it was survival. It gave me a way to stay connected to ag education, to serve teachers, and to build something from nothing.

Now, I’m back in education — teaching future ag teachers at the collegiate level (something I never planned to do). I still run my store, but I don’t do it alone. I hired help from another former ag teacher who also stepped away to prioritize her family. She handles most of the behind-the-scenes marketing visuals so I can focus on teaching and creating.

No — I don’t do it all. But it might look like I do. And some people hate that.

Here’s the thing: You don’t know someone’s story. You don’t know what they’ve walked through. You don’t know what they’re carrying. And you don't know what they've learned along the way.

Yet, as a profession, we judge. We gate-keep. We exclude. We say “Ag Ed is a family” but treat people like outsiders the moment they take a different path.

No wonder so many teachers feel isolated. No wonder some leave. No wonder some never come back.

I’m not sharing this for pity — I’m sharing it because I know there’s someone out there who has been whispered about, accused, or dismissed. Someone who has felt like they have to prove themselves twice as hard to be taken seriously. Someone who still wants to serve the profession but is told they’re doing it “wrong.” And I never want someone to feel alone.

If that’s you, hear me clearly: I see you. I am you. And your story matters — even if no one else understands it.

Write it your way. Live it your way. Because no one knows your story but you.