The Art of Learning

Hello, and welcome to The Art of Learning.

Perhaps an introduction is in order, a little refresher for us both, yeah?

My name is Kira, and I’m an early childhood educator with about 13 years of teaching experience (16 if we’re counting my teenage years coaching gymnastics). A very brave, and frankly, ambitious, 18-year-old me decided to carry on my family’s preschool on my own to help pay my way through college.

A teaching degree wasn’t on my radar at the time, but as I continued working with little ones, I noticed a growing passion, not just for teaching, but for education as a whole. My major in college slowly shifted from computer science, to biology, to finally, elementary education. Not that I owe an explanation for the vastly different paths I explored, but a little background never hurts.

Firstly, my dad is a computer science, math-loving genius, and I don’t say that as hyperbole. The man is smart. When it comes to numbers and problem-solving, he is that guy. I owe most of my mathematical knowledge to him. I thought I was good at math, but mostly because he was good at it, and he taught me well. So, I scored well, assumed I had a knack for it, and figured, “Programmers make great money, no brainer.”

A couple semesters of C# and C++ later, I found myself sitting in a binary coding final, having a short, honest conversation with myself and concluding this career path wasn’t for me.

Biology was up next, and “high school biology teacher” briefly hit the radar. The preschool thing was going fine, and I’d always had a personal love for animals and nature. Most of my high school electives were either science or art classes, and I really loved the college courses I took during that time. Biological anthropology, the excruciatingly difficult human anatomy class and lab (with cadavers, which feels important to mention because it was a big deal for me then, and honestly still is), and of course, biology itself.

I was also taking art classes and realizing something bigger, I didn’t just love any one subject. I loved learning.

Elementary ed was finding its way in, but I had some deeply rooted pride issues about declaring it. I never wanted to be a schoolteacher, it felt like settling. Unchallenging. Basic. I can laugh now, but back then it felt almost taboo to name it. That ego that wanted to be special, to feel smart, different, cooler than everyone else. I’d convinced myself that being a teacher was the opposite of what I wanted. But the truth was, I loved that early childhood education let me keep learning about everything, all the time. It fed my curiosity. It kept me growing. And if teaching wasn’t cool, I was going to make it cool. Because one academic counseling session later, I changed my major to elementary education. This one stuck. I got into a cohort shortly after declaring my major and graduated two years later.

Everything I knew about child development took on new meaning once I had my own children. Suddenly, it wasn’t just theory, it was personal. I wanted to give them the best and become my best in the process. Becoming a mother was a deeply humbling, and at times, downright humiliating experience. It felt like being thrown into the deep end and told to swim. Survival over thriving tends to be a theme for me.

Almost ten years in, if I’m being honest, that hasn’t changed much. But I’m more comfortable here now, less afraid of what this season says about me, as a person or a mother. I’m learning that it doesn’t actually say anything. It’s just the truth. Motherhood is demanding, and any idea of doing it perfectly is really just an intrusive thought that doesn’t deserve my attention.

But for introduction’s sake, it wouldn’t be true to say I’ve always thought this way. Not that I would have ever admitted to being a perfectionist (or even had enough self-awareness to recognize it) but in my early years of learning about parenting and early education, I was caught up in the idea that there had to be a best or most perfect way to do it all.

If I could just unlock the secret, I’d finally nail this thing called life and motherhood. I treated it like a problem to solve. Much of my research came from genuine curiosity and a desire to understand relationships and be the best parent I could be. But the other half came from fear and endless “what ifs.”

What if I’m not patient enough? What if I don’t give them enough attention, or too much? What if I ruin their curiosity? What if I make the wrong choice, or miss a crucial moment they’ll never get back? What if I can’t meet everyone’s needs? What if I screw up my kids, or fail to protect them from the world, or they grow up wishing I’d done things differently?

And boy, did they feel real.

You name it, I probably thought my way through it. And at the time, I believed that if I just researched enough, tried hard enough, worried hard enough, I could outsmart the uncertainty.

In hindsight, postpartum anxiety and undiagnosed OCD were definitely at play here. I wouldn’t call them a superpower (they’ve been the culprit of some of the darkest and loneliest moments of my life) but my ability to obsess and hyperfocus has also played to my advantage when it comes to digesting information and connecting dots.

I’m not usually the most comfortable or as competent as I’d like to be when it comes to sharing my thoughts out loud. My therapist would probably suggest I try, good exposure therapy. A chance to sit in the discomfort and unlearn perfectionism, as he says. I’m not ruling it out. But I’ve already ruled in writing.

Writing has always been where I can best organize my thoughts. Normally, I’d edit until everything felt just right, but I’m going to let this space be a little messy. A little disorganized. Because in a world of A.I. and perfect outcomes, I find myself drawn to what’s real and raw. A place I’ve always wanted to live in, but never quite felt safe enough to.

I know, I’m rambling. I’m realizing this introduction might need to come in a few parts. Turns out, I have a lot to say, so strap in. Part 2 coming soon.

Before you go, here is what you can expect from this space and when to expect it. My goal is to post once a week, on Wednesdays. Maybe more if we’re lucky. I’ve learned that I do best with a little structure and deadline, so consider Wednesdays our standing date.

Here, I’ll be sharing thoughts on educational philosophy, current research, practical tips and inspiration, lesson ideas, ways to create meaningful learning environments, and bits of my personal life along the way, brought to you by over 13 years of experience and a lot of trial and error.

Going forward, this will be a paywalled subscription, with the occasional free post for all. And here’s the honest why, creating meaningful content takes time. I want to be intentional with this space; my hope is that both of us come away feeling our time and energy are well spent and valued.

I really align with what Substack offers because it allows creators to create and to be fairly compensated for the work that goes into it. Other platforms often take advantage of that effort, and unless you’re reaching millions, the return rarely matches the heart behind the work.

Relationships thrive when both sides feel seen, heard, and valued. I hope this space can be that kind of exchange but also with the freedom to step away if it isn’t what you’re needing right now.