Living with Loren

Have you ever found yourself in a space where you’re having to push and pull at the same time?

Tonight, I was getting a blanket out of the dryer. While I was pulling it out, I also had to push other clothes back in that I didn’t want to fall out. And y’all already know — I get lessons and downloads from everything.

Right there in that small moment, I realized something big: that’s exactly what life often feels like.

You’re pulling something out — maybe your purpose, your next breakthrough, your healing — but at the same time, you’re pushing back the things you don’t want to lose, the things that might tumble out or unravel in the process. It’s a constant tension. But it’s also where growth lives.

Do you remember the teacher who made a difference in your life? The one who showed you that there was so much more to “it” than reading, writing, science, history, and arithmetic?

The teacher who made learning real — who found ways to connect content to life, to you?

I was blessed to have two of them.

In third grade, it was Beverly Mallory.
In 11th and 12th grade, it was Cindy Claxton.

As a young child, I was what teachers used to call a social butterfly. I’d finish my work quickly and then get up and… well, socialize. This started in kindergarten — apparently, I gave Mrs. Herring a run for her money. That same pattern followed me all the way until third grade.

But Beverly Mallory looked at me and didn’t see a distraction. She saw a gifted child. She saw beyond the behaviors.

On the first day of school, she handed me a small book on basic sign language and said, “Learn this.” She didn’t give a deadline — it was simply something to occupy me. I devoured it in one weekend.

Mrs. Mallory reviewed the gifted program guidelines and suggested I be tested. She gave me activities to prep, and when I took the test — I got in! Just like that, I was no longer seen as disruptive. I was a student who hadn’t been challenged enough.

She saw me. She pushed past her assumptions and pulled me into a new level of myself.

Now let’s fast forward to high school.

Cindy Claxton is, to this day, the most loving, compassionate, and academically demanding teacher I’ve ever known. Her class wasn’t for the faint of heart — many opted out of AP English and chose dual enrollment instead.

But I stayed.

She made sure we knew how to write in both MLA and APA styles. She challenged our minds by making us learn and recite The Canterbury Tales. We built a Museum of Literature with our own hands based on The Scarlet Letter — a project that was featured in multiple newspapers.

And beyond the curriculum, her room was a refuge. A safe space.

When my great-grandfather passed away in March 2009, I still came to school. Cindy Claxton saw me — and I mean really saw me. She hugged me. She gave me a favorite snack. And she told me to let it out.

That day, she wasn’t just my teacher.
She was my counselor. My safe place. My comfort.

Today, I’m a teacher.

And I understand now, more than ever, the weight educators carry.
We’re not just teachers. We’re also advocates. Big sisters. Surrogate parents. Aunts. Cousins. Mentors.

When students step into my classroom, I strive to nurture, educate, prepare, and listen.

I want them to push past distractions while pulling out the most brilliant parts of themselves. Because that’s what life requires of all of us — day in and day out. We push. We pull. We pour. We pray. We grow.

So, here’s to educators who nurture and see. To the ones who challenge with love. To the ones who pull us higher while holding space for where we are.

You matter more than you know.

Every encouraging word you speak, every creative lesson you plan, every student you choose to see beyond the surface — it matters. Even on the hard days. Especially on the hard days.

To all my fellow teachers out there:

Keep pushing. Keep pulling.
Keep showing up with open hearts and hopeful eyes.
You are shaping lives, building futures, and planting seeds that will bloom long after the school year ends.

Your presence is powerful.
Your work is holy.
And someone — years from now — will say your name when they tell the story of who helped change their life.

Thank you. 💛

Until Next Time,

Keep Living!

Love, Loren

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