When I first started my blog, I had a very clear vision for it. It was going to be my place to offer observations, rapid reactions to issues in education, and—if I’m being honest—to become one of those people other educators sought out for advice, knowledge, and expertise.

I tried. I really did.

But it wasn’t meant to be. The writing felt uninspired. And if I’m being even more honest, it wasn’t just uninspired—it kind of sucked. After a handful of posts, I abandoned it. Not because I had nothing to say. I had plenty to say. Still do. Mostly opinions, occasionally strong ones. I just couldn’t find an angle that felt like me.

I tried relaunching it more than once. New titles. New intentions. Same result. Flat. Forced. Like I was writing the blog I thought I was supposed to write, not the one I actually wanted to read.

Fast forward a bit.

Somewhere along the way, I realized I’m more of a storyteller than a commentator. I like scenes. Moments. Small details. Growing up in a small town. Nostalgic stuff. The kind of stories that carry meaning without announcing it up front.

And it turns out, once you’re telling a story, you can sneak in a little commentary. Sometimes gently. Sometimes humorously. Sometimes without the reader realizing it until a few paragraphs later.

So here we are. Another attempt at writing about education. Just… differently this time.

Instead of starting with an argument or a hot take, I’ll start with a room.

I didn’t walk into the workshop expecting anything profound. It was one of those rooms with stackable chairs, a screen already glowing, and that low murmur of side conversations from people still negotiating whether their coffee had kicked in yet. Laptops opened. Notebooks half-opened. A few of us quietly doing the mental math of how long this was going to be.

Someone shuffled papers. Someone else checked the agenda. We all settled into that familiar professional posture—the one that says, I’m here, I’m listening, and I’m cautiously optimistic.

Then, somewhere between introductions and the first sip of coffee…

I heard it at a workshop once, said almost in passing. No slide. No bold font. Just a phrase, floating there long enough to land.

It stuck with me.

It felt like an invitation—not to be right, but to be honest. To say the thing before it’s fully formed. Thinking aloud. Audible noodling.

It’s the practice of saying things out loud just to see if they make sense once oxygen hits them.

Like molding clay, but with words instead. You don’t start with the finished product. You start by pressing, reshaping, occasionally squashing the whole thing and beginning again.

The act of shaping thoughts in real time. No expectation of polish. Just the willingness to begin.

It wasn’t written on the agenda, but it was definitely in the air—that shared understanding that whatever came next might wander, contradict itself, or land sideways, and no one was going to stop it.

This wasn’t a presentation. It was an open, honest conversation about classroom management, behavior modification, and the daily reality of trying to help kids become functional humans—preferably before first period, and ideally before the coffee wore off.

Coffee was present. Not just present—essential. The kind of coffee that doesn’t solve problems but makes them feel survivable. The kind that says, I’m not ready for solutions yet, but I am ready to talk.

And talk we did.

There was a moment when the room went quiet. Not awkward quiet—thinking quiet. A few people stared at the table. Someone slowly stirred their coffee, even though it didn’t need it anymore. A few of us exchanged quick glances. Nothing obvious. Just enough to acknowledge that we all knew where this was headed—and that none of us were completely innocent.

Accountability came up early, as it always does. We all nodded in agreement about how important it is. Then, almost immediately, we subtly repositioned ourselves as the people who understand accountability… while quietly hoping it wouldn’t look too closely in our direction. Funny how that works.

No one wants to be accountable, but we are deeply committed to holding others accountable. Passionately so.

Relationships followed. Or more accurately, the absence of them. Everyone agrees relationships matter—until they require time, patience, or emotional energy on a Tuesday afternoon when the copier is jammed and your email just dinged for the twelfth time.

Building working relationships with students is hard. Maintaining them in a stressed system is even harder. When pressure rises, relationships are usually the first thing we set gently aside and promise to come back to later.

Spoiler: later rarely comes.

And then there are the parents—sometimes the first mirror of the system a child encounters. Parents are part of the ecosystem too. Their expectations, frustrations, and their own battles with values, rules, and routines all filter into the classroom in ways that are impossible to ignore. Sometimes it feels like they’ve been handed the same flow chart we’re trying to follow—but forgot to read the instructions.

If the school system is a microcosm of society, parents are often the first reflection of that world for many kids… whether we’re ready for it or not.

At some point, someone mentioned values. Or rather, the challenge of finding a set of core values we all actually agree on. Not the poster-on-the-wall kind. The lived ones. The kind that guide decisions when things get messy. It became clear pretty quickly that this isn’t just a school problem—it’s a society problem wearing a lanyard.

Then came the systems talk. Protocols. Procedures. Flow charts. The stuff that looks great in training and gets real shaky in practice. Systems don’t collapse all at once—they erode slowly when protocols aren’t followed consistently, or when they’re applied depending on who’s watching. Inconsistency breeds frustration. Frustration hardens into resentment. And before you know it, adults are holding grudges like middle schoolers… while middle schoolers hold grudges like seasoned professionals.

We acknowledged the obvious truth: adults take things personally. Of course we do. We’re human. But we also have to remember that the kid who just rolled their eyes, shut down, or exploded is still—despite all evidence to the contrary—a kid. Patience, as it turns out, is not in abundant supply in education. And that’s less a character flaw than a system symptom.

Classroom structure came up next. Someone said what everyone was thinking: most teachers loosen structure at some point. Sometimes intentionally. Sometimes out of survival. And once it starts slipping, getting it back feels like trying to put toothpaste back in the tube—during passing period. Classroom management isn’t a one-time setup. It’s a living thing. Ignore it, and it will absolutely ignore you back.

Eventually, the conversation drifted to outcomes. Destinations. Data. We are very good at focusing on where we’re supposed to end up, and far less attentive to how we get there. Quantity has quietly replaced quality, and learning has become something we track instead of something we experience.

Then came the moment—the bigger aha. The one that didn’t need a slide, a handout, or a follow-up meeting.

Education is caught in a constant clash between policy and expectation. Between what we say we value and what we actually reward. Data matters. Funding matters. Politics matters. But somewhere in all of that, the purpose of education gets blurry.

At some point, the client—the student—became secondary. Less important than the system. Less important than the service. Less important than the funding that keeps the lights on and the coffee flowing.

No one said that out loud.

But everyone felt it.

And maybe that’s the point of speaking in draft form. It’s not about having answers. It’s about naming what we’re seeing, admitting where things don’t line up, and being honest enough to say, This still needs work.

Just like the system.
Just like us.
And yes—probably after another cup of coffee.

There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com. Telling stories, sharing thoughts, and drinking coffee. A blend of fiction, reflection, and whatever’s brewing – one post at a time.