I knew for a while—long before actually making the decision—that my time as a preschool classroom teacher was coming to an end, at least for now. My first calling is as a wife and mother, but over time, I realized they were getting what was left of me rather than the best of me—and that wasn’t sustainable.
My husband serves as an executive for a well-established national company. His role is both a blessing and a responsibility, one that draws us back to trusting God in every season—especially while raising three active kids. We realized we couldn’t both be stretched thin without it affecting our home. And as someone who gives fully to everything, doing the bare minimum was never an option. Eventually, my bucket ran dry. That’s where I found myself—completely depleted.
Still, walking away from the classroom wasn’t easy. I love what I do. I love supporting children who benefit from early intervention. I love teaching literacy, building character, and encouraging curiosity. But more than that, I’ve been surrounded by an incredible sisterhood of coworkers—women who love children deeply and show up with heart and humility every single day. The families I’ve worked with have been some of the most generous and gracious people I’ve ever met, and the kids I’ve had the privilege to teach have left lasting imprints on my heart.
Most of all, I’m especially grateful for the joy of sharing a classroom with my room partners and co-teacher—teammates who became dear friends and made every day brighter. It wasn’t just a job; it was a calling, and it was a community. Letting go of that has been one of the hardest parts.
But family comes first.
So here I am, home again—grieving the loss of a role I cherished, yet looking ahead with anticipation for whatever God is preparing next. In that space between sadness and hope, I wrote a letter to myself—and maybe it will speak to you, too. Because goodbyes are hard, and transitions can be both holy and heartbreaking.
Take a deep breath. You’ve made a brave choice. Not an easy one. Not a popular one. But a faithful one.
It is okay to feel sad. It is okay to feel a little lost. You left a piece of yourself in the place you stepped away from, and that matters. You mattered. The hours you gave, the care you offered, the sacrifices you made—they were seen. You showed up again and again, even when no one was watching.
But your worth is not tied to a title.
You are not less valuable because you stepped away.
You did not fail just because others don’t understand.
You are still called.
You are still capable.
You are still you—strong, wise, compassionate, and full of purpose.
This is not the end of your story. It is a shift. A turning of the page. A new chapter that may look different but still holds space for your gifts and your presence.
So when silence makes you feel forgotten, remember this:
God never forgets. He sees you. He honors the yes you gave for so long. And He blesses the new yes you’re offering now, even if no one else notices.
You are not behind.
You are not broken.
You are becoming.
Let yourself grieve.
Let yourself breathe.
Let yourself hope.
There are beautiful days ahead. But even now, in this space of transition, there is still beauty to be found.
With love and grace,
Cassie
Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up. — Galatians 6:9
Grace in the Disarray 