Opening Doors

A reflection on loss, reinvention, and the courage to help

Some doors don’t slam. They close slowly, quietly, over a long period of time — and you don’t even notice until someone makes the decision for you.

On October 4, 2022, ten minutes before my next class started, a bomb was dropped in my lap. My German program — the one I had built and nurtured for nearly two decades — was being cut. No warning. No conversation. No courtesy of time to process what was happening before I was expected to carry on as if my world had not imploded. The person who delivered that news was technically my boss. In that moment, he was something else entirely.

Here’s the thing I didn’t say out loud for a long time: I was done too. Teaching during the pandemic had hollowed me out in ways I still struggle to articulate. I spent my days writing lessons no one engaged with, entering zero after zero after zero into a gradebook, emailing parents about students I barely saw. All the things that had made teaching joyful — the relationships, the energy of a classroom, the spark of a student finally getting it — had been stripped away. I hated it. By the time that door was slammed in my face, I had already been looking for a way out. I just hadn’t found the courage to go.

So he did it for me. He thrust open the door and shoved me through it.

I left that day without sub plans and spent four days under the covers sobbing. I could not fathom a world where I was not a teacher. But I also knew, with complete certainty, that I would never put myself in a position again where I had to look over my shoulder wondering when they would cut my program. If I were not a teacher — what the fuck was I going to do?

The Door I Stumbled Through

I went back the following Monday. I sat in my car and sobbed, then mustered the courage to walk into the building and back to my classroom. This went on for weeks. I was mentally exhausted in a way I cannot begin to put into words.

After a few weeks I told my husband Tom that I could not continue. I would leave at the semester — still with absolutely no idea what would come next. I interviewed for a position at the local community college, certain I was a sure fit. A few weeks later, I received an email telling me they had selected someone else. The door to my education career was closing, and I still didn’t know what to even consider.

The end of the semester came. A few students and a small group of colleagues stopped by to say farewell. And with Tom by my side, I left for the last time. The door to that chapter of my life didn’t just close — it slammed shut with a padlock.

Tom and I agreed I wouldn’t even begin looking for anything until after the holidays. Just before the new year, an email arrived from an organization I had been supporting on and off. They were looking for volunteers. It sounded interesting. I responded.

I had no idea that walking through that door would change my life.

Six weeks later, I had been offered a full-time position. Three years ago, I began a completely new career as a Development Manager for PADS of Elgin — with one private goal: to learn how nonprofits worked so I could start my own someday. I had arrived as a spy.

I had been warned before accepting the position. The person who hired me, I was told, was a horrible boss and I should walk away. What did I have to lose? If it was terrible, I could leave and keep looking. What followed was a year of incredible highs and crushing lows — and the slow, certain realization that despite the chaos, I was making a difference. The work was changing me. Walking through that door had been profound, even when it was painful.

Just shy of my one-year anniversary, I was ready to walk out the door. But sometimes, the door that needs opening isn’t the one you walk out of. Leadership changed, and so did everything else.

What followed was a year of wide open doors. I met people. I built relationships. I worked harder than I ever had. I learned to lead. I made a difference. I never once stopped helping.

The Door I Chose

Then, a year ago, everything changed again. Our new leader joined the team and inherited a financial crisis none of us had fully understood. Difficult decisions followed. The parts of my job I had loved most were gone. I had to ask myself a question I hadn’t expected to face so soon:

Do I stay — or do I walk out this door and see what opens next?

I decided to stay.

That decision hasn’t always been easy. But it has been mine. And there is something quietly powerful about choosing a door rather than being shoved through one.

Three years ago, I had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life. Today, I know exactly who I am outside of a classroom. I know what I’m capable of. I know that my heart is wired to help — and that no one can take that from me, no matter how many programs they cut or doors they close.

Which brings me to this poem. I wrote it after hearing a sermon on the theme of opening doors, and I realized the sermon was telling my story. The words that follow are my attempt to distill three years of loss, reinvention, and gratitude into something smaller and truer.

I hope they open something in you.

Opening Doors

At the time
It felt like ultimate betrayal.
A door slamming—
The air knocked from my lungs,
Leaving me crumpled in darkness,
Days dissolving into tears—
Four days under the covers,
Nothing to console me
No future I could fathom,
Unable to locate
Any door
To take me
In any direction.

The reality was
The door had been closing
Slowly, over a long period of time—
It wanted to close.
I couldn’t close it myself.
Someone else made the decision—
Legs knocked out from under me,
Thrust into the unknown.

What would I do?
What could I do?
What should I do?
Completely paralyzed,
Searching deep within myself
For any answer.

Then—
An email.
A call for volunteers.
My heart, wired to help,
Recognized something.
I ventured through the door
With one goal — or so I told myself:
To help.

The path forward
Still uncertain,
I helped anyway.

Not without struggle.
Not without a door
I nearly walked back out of.
But guided, always,
By the one thing I knew—
To help.

And slowly—
Another door opened.
Then another.
A person met.
An event attended.
A conversation that surprised me.
Each threshold crossed
Leading somewhere
I could not have planned.

Opportunities I never sought.
Richness I couldn’t have imagined.
Connections that changed me.
Memories worth keeping.

But most of all—
I never stopped helping.
The door that closed
Could not take that from me.
And when the next one opened—
This time, I chose to walk through.

A gratitude I’m still learning
To fully hold.