Holiday break has given me the opportunity to meet up with
several friends I don’t see nearly enough. The break provides the luxurious opportunity
to go out to lunch (!!) and chew slowly (!!) and actually linger (!!) while
catching up. I’ve also slipped out early
in the morning to meet a friend for breakfast or coffee. It doesn’t matter how it happens—I just love how the slower pace allows me to connect with people I
love dearly.
In the course of these conversations, like clockwork, each
of my friends has wrinkled her brow, tilted her head, and said, “So… how are
you doing?” Their tone is similarly compassionate,
curious, and empathetic.
Legit question, given the complete change my work took last
fall when I started a principalship at a new school in my district. I was transferred—happily and willingly, and
I was excited to go. I went off to meet my new challenge, eager to work with a
new group of people and make new relationships. And I’ve loved it. It’s been fantastic in countless ways. The work, day in and day out, is what I love.
But in leaving my previous building, I have been taken aback by the unexpected flashes of homesickness that occasionally swept over me, without warning, strong enough to make me need to stop and breathe carefully.
Here’s the thing.
There is a code between
principals. There are lots of Principal
Code components, but one of the biggest is that when you’re gone, you really
go. For good. You pack up your office, and you go off to
whatever is next—retirement, another job, a promotion, whatever. And you don’t look back. You don’t show up for staff parties or
student performances or just to visit at the end of the day. You leave an open, empty canvas for the
new principal to paint—to create a new culture, refine expectations, and
tweak instructional practices as he or she sees fit.
You go.
But that really sucks sometimes, because it means you have
to leave behind the very real relationships you’ve forged.
It’s like a bad breakup. It’s happened to all of us: you have a boyfriend you really like, and you like his friends and his parents and his house and the things you do
as a unit. Then he breaks up with you. He moves on; he's gone. But you miss him. Suddenly, you can’t really talk to his
friends anymore, because they’re his
friends. They are his parents. It’s his house
and life. You have nothing to do with any of it anymore.
Same with leaving a school.
We build strong relationships with people when we work with them, and we
begin to know a lot about them—the nuances of their laughter, the cadence of
their voice, the moment when they’re about to cry. We know their flaws and strengths. We begin to love them in spite of—and because
of—these things. In many ways, working
closely with someone is like living with them.
So when you leave, even if you’re happy to do so, there’s
still some mourning that happens.
Seeing my friends and talking through this natural series of emotions has been cathartic. They have done what friends do—legitimize and validate my emotions, reassure that it is temporary, and plan a lunch date for summer break. The homesickness will lessen in time, I know; indeed, it already has. I've developed new relationships and connections quickly, and the lost ones don't cut quite as deeply anymore. So when I see my friends again, and they ask how I'm doing, I am sure I will be able to grin back and say, "I feel right at home. Thank you for asking."
