There is something magical and powerful about watching confidence take root. It doesn’t arrive loudly. It doesn’t announce itself. It usually slips in, filling the places a person once believed were empty. I see this happen most often when I teach coding.
I’ve been teaching coding since 2018, when my boss took a chance on me. Back then, I started with HTML, which felt like taking baby steps into a new world. Over time, I moved into Arduino’s quirky dialect, then Python, and now JavaScript. Each one came with its own alphabet, its own grammatical rules, its own way of structuring thought. But just like learning any spoken language, once you understand the foundations (the grammar, the syntax, the logic beneath the words), you begin to feel more confident. You stop guessing and start understanding. And slowly, the language starts speaking back.
Year after year, in both elementary and high school, I watch students approach coding the same way someone approaches an unfamiliar animal. Carefully and hesitantly, unsure if it will bite. Coding feels unreachable to many of them, almost mythical, like it belongs to someone smarter, braver, or naturally gifted. They underestimate how capable they really are, how many problem-solving muscles they use every single day without noticing. They don’t realize that coding is simply another way of thinking, another path through the forest, another lantern they already know how to carry. 
Maybe that’s why I love it so much. In high school, I preferred math because 2 + 2 will ALWAYS equal 4. There’s something reassuring about a problem that behaves itself. You can walk toward it or backward away from it and still arrive at the same result. My state testing scores, however, insisted I was better at reading and writing, but those subjects felt too subjective, too open-ended. My ideas didn’t always align with those grading me, so the “right answer” rarely felt predictable. 
Coding, though, lives in a beautiful space between those worlds. It holds the solidity of math, the comfort of structure and logic, yet still leaves room for invention and creativity. It offers multiple ways to reach the same outcome, like writing a story where the ending is set but the path is entirely your own. You can work forward and backward. You can take the long road or the straight line. You can explore. And when things break (as they often do), the break is simply information. Nothing more. Nothing personal. Just an invitation to understand the problem differently.
And I have watched students do exactly that in ways that steal my breath a little every time. 
One year, in my TEALS class, a student built a nightscape scene that required multiple shapes to interact with each other. The problem was that we hadn’t yet learned the code to make the objects aware of each other’s edges. Most students would have abandoned the idea or simplified it. But not this one. Instead, he sat quietly, coding, debugging, calculating angles and distances with the kind of steady focus that makes you forget you’re in a classroom at all. 
When he showed me his solution, I nearly laughed in delight. He had coded the math of the shapes themselves, using perimeters and radii to create a “mock” awareness between all of them. He reverse-engineered a concept he didn’t know yet. He built his own bridge across the gap. It was clever and elegant and entirely his own. I still think about that moment, the way he shrugged like it was no big deal, unaware he’d just demonstrated exactly why coding feels like a living literacy.
Moments like that remind me why coding matters beyond the screen. 
Because that’s what it is. Another language we use to understand the world. Another way to build meaning and shape possibility. Another alphabet for the future.
Every time a student presses “run,” fully expecting failure, and instead sees their work shine back at them, something shifts. Not because the code works, but because they do. Confidence grows there, steadily covering old doubts with something new. They begin to realize that learning to code isn’t about perfection or instant brilliance. It is about patience. Curiosity. Trying again. Letting yourself be a beginner long enough to become something else. 
In a world that keeps asking us to adapt and endure, there is something hopeful about watching students meet a challenge head-on and refuse to back away from it. Coding is full of obstacles… broken programs, stubborn logic errors, moments where nothing makes sense, and the cursor blinks like a dare. Yet again and again, I watch students press forward. They press “run” one more time. They rewrite. They rethink. They try another approach.
Confidence doesn’t bloom because the code works. It grows because they stay in the room with the problem long enough to find a way through it. It grows in the quiet grit of trial and error, in the small victories that come from patience and persistence, in the steady recognition that setbacks aren’t failures but part of the process.
And maybe that’s the real magic of coding. Not the logic. Not the syntax. Not even the finished program.
It is the resilience built along the way. It is the problem solved after ten different attempts. It is the quiet triumph of not giving up. 
A kind of confidence that doesn’t shout, but settles instead.
Confidence that is earned.

​The first bell always feels a little too loud in the morning. Students drift through the doors, voices rising and falling as the day wakes up around them. In the middle of the chatter, there are small moments that say more than words ever could. A student holds the door for someone without being asked. Another cuts between two people who are talking and keeps walking. It’s in those seconds that the quiet lessons live, the ones that tell us what kind of community we are building.
Throughout my years, I have developed my own threshold when it comes to disrespectful behavior that I do not tolerate. Whether it is referring to a teacher by their first name, belching without saying excuse me, walking between people who are talking, wearing a hat inside a building, or talking when someone else already is, I have certain expectations that most students understand and respect. However, we live in a changing world where gone are the days of old when common courtesy was common.
Many years ago, I was taught by a very dear friend and mentor that the job of educators isn’t just to teach students reading, writing, and math, but also to teach them to be fully functional, contributing members of society that people don’t want to hurt. This latter lesson starts when we, the educators, mirror the respect we want our students to have. From the outside, it may look like we are teaching one curriculum, when in fact we are teaching two: the official one with objectives and rubrics, and the unspoken one that teaches how to treat others.
When I first began my journey in education, I had some of the best examples when it came to creating a culture of respect. They took up this hidden curriculum gladly and were always willing to help guide not just students but peers through the dos and don’ts of creating a respectful, responsible, and safe environment. It wasn’t by saying, “No, you shouldn’t do that.” It was by living as an example, even when they felt overwhelmed or burnt out. I got to witness for years the effect of simply mirroring the behavior they wanted to see in their students. Without having to fight over and over again on the same battlegrounds of respect, their students got to see the normalization of being kind and thoughtful and the effect it had on those around them.
Like anything, there is another side to that coin. I have watched the effect of normalizing disrespect, the downward spiral of tearing down those around you because it is “fun” or it makes you feel “superior” or simply because you didn’t want to stop and think about someone else’s feelings. I’ve seen how this mindset erodes workplaces and communities alike, leaving behind distrust and exhaustion where collaboration once lived.
I understand the impulse because there was a period of time when being less than respectful was my knee-jerk reaction to some of my coworkers, family, and friends. It wasn’t until I consciously watched students mirror not just my behavior but the behavior of the adults around them that I had to take a step back. While it may not always be the popular thing, raising my expectations for not just students and coworkers, but for myself, doesn’t make it a bad thing. So this year, before I point fingers, I’m trying to get back to the Miss K of five years ago. The Miss K who tried to mirror the behavior that once was the standard, at least in my happy little corner of the world. Because respect still matters. Because students are always watching. And because even in the smallest places, dignity can begin again. 

The first day of school was packed full of welcomes, PBIS expectations, and a return to my high school computer science class. I am so excited to be back in this role and to see the energy students are bringing into the year.
One of the changes I made this year was to try a new classroom management system. While we are a PBIS (Positive Behavior Interventions and Supports) school, I have always struggled to find a system that feels truly age appropriate for high school students. A couple of years ago, I had a student go on multiple rants about how high school was pointless and how they just wanted to get straight to the workforce. I explained that high school is not only about academic knowledge, but also about learning the skills needed to thrive in the workplace such as respect, responsibility, accountability, and resourcefulness.
That conversation stuck with me. Over the summer I stumbled across something called Class Bank, and I decided to give it a try. This tool allows me to “pay” students for doing their jobs in class. They pay rent on their equipment, can be fined for negative behavior, earn bonuses for positive choices, and save money for prizes in our classroom store.
On the very first day, we walked through their pay schedule and bills. I also explained that students would need to pay a small fee to leave the classroom during instructional time. Twice during class, students asked to go to their lockers or get water. When they found out what it would cost them, they both decided they did not want to go into debt and that those trips were not as necessary as they thought. This led to a great conversation about being prepared during passing periods and making choices in classes that do not “charge” for leaving.
Students were especially excited to help outline potential items for the classroom store. Most of their suggestions were priced high, between $500 and $1,000, and included things like pizza parties, movie days, and even a “skip an assignment” pass. Because a large portion of their income goes back into bills, students also have the option to take on “odd jobs” for extra pay and earn bonuses for going above and beyond.
It was just the first day, but the response from students was enthusiastic, and I am thrilled to see their excitement. I am grateful to have found a tool that not only motivates them but also connects back to the life and workplace skills that matter beyond high school.
Here’s to a great year ahead!

As I prepare for the back-to-school rush, reorganizing and weeding my libraries, I found my subject for the week: graphic novels. Love them or hate them, they are taking over the reading field and have changed the way children consume literature. From Diary of a Wimpy Kid to Dog Man, from A Wrinkle in Time to I Survived, children can’t seem to get enough of the graphic novel phenomenon. The real question is… can graphic novels do more than just engage students? Can they build real reading proficiency and support standardized testing performance?
One of the most important contributions graphic novels make addresses the first hurdle many librarians and parents face: motivation and engagement. In a 2023 survey by the National Literacy Trust, children who read graphic novels were twice as likely to say they enjoyed reading. These readers also reported feeling more confident than peers who didn’t read them. This matters because, in a world full of reluctant readers, getting a child to not only want to read but also feel confident while doing so builds fluency… which can lead to stronger reading proficiency down the road.
Graphic novels can also support vocabulary growth and comprehension. While this can’t be said of every graphic novel, many introduce complex words that are anchored by visuals to aid understanding. Because of this combination of rich vocabulary and supportive imagery, studies have shown that students who read graphic novels performed better on reading comprehension tests than peers who only read traditional texts.
The visuals themselves also play a key role. They require readers to interpret narrative across both text and images, building skills in prediction, sequencing, inference, and critical thinking. All of these skills contribute to stronger performance on state assessments.
Throughout my years in public education, I’ve had many parents voice concerns about their children reading graphic novels, especially during Book Fair season, when they make up a large portion of the merchandise sent to us. These concerns are valid. Some worry the books aren’t complex enough and will discourage deeper reading habits, or that they might limit the more in-depth reading experiences parents hope for in school. For a long time, my own hesitation was that graphic novels could hinder a child’s ability to immerse themselves in long, text-only novels rich in world-building. I worried their attention spans might adapt to shorter formats, making it harder to engage with more complex works.
That’s why I believe how graphic novels are used is important. Rather than becoming the default, they should serve as bridges. Introducing students to stories that spark their interest while encouraging them to explore longer, more challenging works. Over the years, I’ve seen reluctant readers engage deeply with graphic novels, and with the right guidance, they’ve built the confidence to move into prose. In this way, graphic novels can be powerful tools to help readers grow in multiple directions.
Years ago, I read an article about the potential drawbacks of certain series, specifically Diary of a Wimpy Kid and Captain Underpants. The author argued that if we meet kids where they are but fail to encourage growth, we aren’t truly serving them. I carry that perspective into every conversation I have about graphic novels with students, staff, and parents. When used thoughtfully, they can be much more than just “fun.” They can boost motivation, support vocabulary development, and strengthen the skills that lead to lasting reading proficiency.