From Preschool Special Ed to Somatic Work: Seeing What’s Good in Grown-Up Lives
Starting on the Classroom Floor
I began my career in preschool and kindergarten special education. Most days started on the floor. I sat on rugs covered in blocks and picture cards, surrounded by kids, figuring out how to be in a room together.
Progress looked different there. It was a child making eye contact for the first time in weeks. A kid who usually hid under the table, creeping closer to the group during circle time. The first “I did it myself” after a hundred attempts at a zipper.
My job was to notice these things. Not just the behavior charts or assessments, but the little signs that someone felt safer, braver, more themselves. I learned to watch hands, shoulders, breathing, and faces more than I watched the clock.
Those years trained me to pay attention in a specific way.
Bubbles, Miracles, and the Way Kids See
There was a day with bubbles I still think about.
We went outside with plastic wands and a cheap bottle of soap. The kids shrieked and chased the bubbles as each one mattered. I found myself watching the reflections inside them and trying to snap a photo before they popped.
The kids gathered around my camera to see. When we finally caught one image in focus, they gasped. You could see the trees, the sky, even part of the playground, all tucked into this round, fragile bit of soap and air.
It reminded me how much children notice when we slow down with them. They do not ask if they are being “too much” for caring about something small. They care.
Sitting With Adults Now
These days, I sit with adults instead of preschoolers, usually in the context of somatic and mindfulness work. I have been doing this work for over 15 years. The details have changed, but the heart of it feels familiar.
People come in with questions like:
“Why do I live waiting for something bad to happen?”
“Why do I shut down even when I want to stay present?”
“Why is it so hard to trust when things are going well?”
Many of them have lived through chronic stress, trauma, or constant uncertainty. Their bodies learned to stay ready for the next impact. It kept them going when they needed it. Over time, though, everything starts to feel like a potential threat.
Good moments slide by unnoticed because the nervous system is busy scanning for the following problem.
Widening the Frame
I am not interested in telling people to “think positive” or ignore their history. Pain and fear are real. So is the effort it takes to show up at all.
What I try to offer is a broader frame.
Alongside the bracing and worry, other things are happening too:
A breath that lands a bit softer than usual
A choice to pause instead of pushing past your limits
A boundary that would have felt impossible a year ago
A moment of, “I handled that differently this time.”
These shifts are easy to dismiss. They do not trend on social media. They do not sound dramatic when you describe them out loud. Still, they matter.
To me, they are the adult version of chasing bubbles across a playground. Evidence that something hopeful is still alive and moving, even in a life that has experienced many challenges.
What I Carry Forward
The teacher part of me never left. I am still tracking minor signs of change. I am still interested in how people grow when they are met with respect instead of pressure.
Preschool and kindergarten special education taught me to look closely at what is already working, even when the surface seems messy. Working with adults has shown me that the same lens is needed here, too.
We do not outgrow the need to be seen. We do not outgrow the impact of someone noticing our effort instead of just our struggles.
These days, I use that early training to help people notice their own progress, their own capacity, their own moments of goodness. Not to erase what hurts, but to stop letting pain be the only thing that gets their attention.
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