Nineteen years.

That’s how long I’ve been teaching — long enough to see Smartboards come and go, curriculums flip like pancakes, and coffee evolve from a morning drink to a survival mechanism.

And yet, this week, something happened that I never saw coming.

My teacher balloon popped.

You know the balloon I’m talking about — that invisible one that floats above your head every time a kid finally “gets it,” when a parent sends a thank-you note, or when a student who once hated math proudly hands in an A. That balloon filled me with purpose for 19 years.

Until it didn’t.

It started with a conversation in a meeting— the kind that you wish wasn’t needed. A few colleagues commenting about how some of “last year’s students didn’t learn anything.”

Last year’s students.

My students.

I froze.

Because while I know teaching is hard and every class is different, hearing those words hit harder than any observation score or state test ever could. It was personal. It felt like all the late nights, all the lesson plans, all the moments I thought I was making a difference suddenly deflated into thin air.

It’s one thing to question yourself — teachers do that daily.

It’s another thing to hear others question the very thing you’ve given your heart to for nearly two decades.

I went home that night, sat in my car in the driveway, and just… let it out. Not a full-on ugly cry (okay, maybe close), but the kind that comes from years of holding in every ounce of pressure, expectation, and “be everything to everyone” energy.

And as a mom, it hit even harder. Because my own kids see me give so much to other people’s kids. They see it all.

So hearing that maybe it wasn’t enough?

That balloon didn’t just pop — it deflated slowly, painfully, until all I could hear was silence.

But here’s the thing I remembered after a few deep breaths (and maybe a little ice cream therapy):

You don’t teach for the praise.

You don’t teach for the test scores.

You don’t even teach for the colleagues who see or don’t see your work.

You teach for the moment a kid walks back into your room two years later and says, “You made me believe I could.”

You teach for the quiet ones who never say it out loud but still remember.

You teach because somewhere inside you, there’s still a flicker — even if the balloon isn’t floating right now.

Maybe after 19 years, that balloon doesn’t need to be shiny and full all the time. Maybe it’s okay to patch it, refill it, or even hold it close until the air slowly returns.

Because even when it pops — you’re still a teacher.

And the love that built that balloon in the first place?

That’s something no comment can take away.