The Warm Fuzzies

 

We've all heard the saying, "If you choose a job you love, you'll never work a day in your life."

I don't believe that for a second.

I absolutely love teaching. I can't imagine doing anything else. But loving your job doesn't mean it isn't work. It just means that somehow, the good parts outweigh the bad ones.

Trust me, there are plenty of bad ones.

There are days when Canvas decides to throw a tantrum. There are emails that make me reread them three times just to make sure someone actually typed those words. There are students who seem convinced that deadlines are merely suggestions and that, somehow, Thursday has mysteriously transformed into Sunday.

(For the record, it never has.)

And then there are the mountains of grading. If you've ever wondered what professors do in the summer, the answer is... grade the papers from spring. (Kidding. Mostly.)

But none of those things are what I think about when someone asks why I love teaching.

I think about the warm fuzzies.

Recently, a student stayed after class to chat with me, something they had done almost every week throughout the semester. Public speaking absolutely terrified them. Every speech left them visibly shaking.

As we were wrapping up our conversation, they said something I'll probably remember for the rest of my career.

"I'm so glad I ended up with you as my professor. I don't think I could have made it through this class with anyone else. You make me feel comfortable. Safe."

If I'm being honest, I don't even remember what grade that student earned. I remember those words.

That conversation made me think about so many other students I've been lucky enough to teach over the years.

The returning adult who was convinced they were too old to go back to college. The veteran who quietly wondered if they still belonged in a classroom.

The student who apologized before every speech because they were certain they were going to fail... and then finished the semester speaking with confidence.

The students rebuilding their lives after incredibly difficult chapters, former incarcerations, determined to prove—to themselves more than anyone else—that they were capable of something more.

I've always had a soft spot for underdogs.

Maybe it's because life has taught me that everyone is carrying something. Most of the time, we just can't see it.

One of the greatest privileges of my job is getting to watch people discover strengths they didn't know they had. Sometimes they just need one person to believe in them long enough for them to start believing in themselves.

That's the magic.

It's not the grades.

It's not the attendance.

It's not the discussion posts.

It's watching fear slowly turn into confidence.

People sometimes ask how I can teach at multiple colleges and still enjoy it. If you're wondering why I keep teaching at four colleges despite the workload... this is why.

The answer is simple.

I don't do it because I love grading.

I don't do it because I enjoy writing quizzes or organizing Moodle modules.

I certainly don't do it because I enjoy reading emails that begin with, "This is unfair..."

I do it because every once in a while, a student reminds me that what we do actually matters.

Sometimes it's an email years after graduation.

Sometimes it's seeing a student smile after giving a speech they were convinced they couldn't do.

Sometimes it's one simple sentence.

"You made me feel safe."

As teachers, we rarely get to see the long-term impact we have on our students. Most of them move on with their lives, and that's exactly what they're supposed to do.

But every now and then, one of them unknowingly reminds us why we stayed.

Those are my warm fuzzies.

Some opportunities don't work out the way we hope. Fortunately, the students keep reminding me I ended up exactly where I needed to be.

Somehow they make every Brightspace meltdown, every ridiculous email, and every paper waiting to be graded completely worth it. 

The Psychology of Watching The Golden Girls Every Night

I think there may actually be something psychologically fascinating about people who constantly rewatch the same television shows over and over again. Not in a “we need to study these people in a lab” kind of way, but in a “why do I know the exact episode of The Golden Girls from hearing Blanche say three words?” kind of way.

And before anyone asks: yes, I have seen every episode. Repeatedly. At this point, Hulu should honestly just give me partial ownership of the Miami house.

What’s interesting is that I never really get tired of it. I know what Sophia is going to say. I know Dorothy is about to stare into the camera like she’s reconsidering every life choice that led her to this kitchen. I know Rose’s story from St. Olaf is going to somehow involve livestock, a parade, and mild community trauma. None of this is new information to me. Yet every single night, there I am in my bedroom, turning on the same episodes like a 75-year-old retired woman trapped in the body of an exhausted college instructor.

Some people fall asleep to rain sounds. Some meditate. I apparently require four elderly women arguing over cheesecake at 1:00 a.m.

I’ve heard people connect “comfort shows” to anxiety, stress, nostalgia, trauma, neurodivergence, or emotional regulation, and honestly? I think there’s probably truth in all of it. The older I get, the more I think predictable things become comforting when life itself hasn’t always felt predictable. Fictional characters can start to feel strangely safe. Nobody leaves. Nobody changes much. Dorothy stays sarcastic. Blanche stays dramatic. Rose stays sweet. Sophia stays completely unhinged.

There’s comfort in knowing exactly what comes next.

And maybe that sounds silly to people who don’t have a show like that, but I think there’s something healing about returning to the same place over and over when it feels familiar. Especially for people who grew up without a strong sense of stability or consistency. Some people had comforting childhood traditions, giant family dinners, or a house full of dependable people. I had reruns and sarcasm.

Honestly, not the worst trade.

At this point, the women from The Golden Girls have probably spent more nights in my bedroom than my first husband. And unlike real life, I know exactly what’s going to happen there. The conflict gets resolved in 22 minutes. Nobody stays mad forever. Somebody learns a lesson. Sophia insults someone. Roll credits. Emotional stability restored until tomorrow.

Maybe that’s the psychology of comfort shows. Or maybe I just need psychiatric evaluation and a lifetime Hulu discount.

Mischievious Isn't a Word (And Yet Here We Are)

 I was watching a 20/20 interview when an investigative reporter confidently dropped the word “mischievious.”

Not mischievous — the real one. The bonus syllable version. The “buy one, get one free” pronunciation. And the worst part? Nobody flinched. Not the interviewer. Not the editors. Not the universe.

Which is how I know we’re officially living in the era of confidently wrong English being treated like a personality trait.  But it isn't a cute little personality quirk.

It’s not the language naturally changing — it’s the rest of us being told, “Stop being annoying. Just accept it.”  And it doesn't just stop with this one word.

“Accepted Vernacular” is just a fancy way to say “we gave up.”

We used to have a system:

Someone says something wrong. Someone corrects it. Everyone moves on

Now it’s:

Someone says something wrong. Enough people repeat it. It becomes “common.” And suddenly it’s rude to act like it’s wrong

At some point, the error stops being an error and starts being a choice.

And if you don’t accept the choice, you’re the problem. You’re the uptight one. You’re the villain in the story.

Not the phrase that makes no sense.

“I could care less” is the hill I will die on!

People confidently say “I could care less” when they mean they do not care at all.

Which is like saying:

“I am starving.”
“Oh wow, when was the last time you ate?”
“Two hours ago. I could eat less.”

If you could care less, then you still care.
You have room to care less.
There is emotional wiggle room left in the tank.

What you mean is couldn’t.
As in: “My caring has hit rock bottom. It cannot go lower. We are done here.”

But no — now it’s so common that we’re expected to just accept it as “a phrase people say.”

Not because it’s correct.
Not because it makes sense.
But because it’s so common.

We're not evolving, we're just lowering the bar—  and I think that’s what bothers me most.

It’s not that people misspeak sometimes. We all do. Everyone has a word they’ve been saying wrong since 2006 and only found out last week. That’s normal.

It’s that we’re now treating correction like it’s a hate crime.

Like the mere idea of saying, “Hey, just so you know…” is somehow worse than the phrase being wrong in the first place.

We’ve created a culture where: accuracy is “snobby,” clarity is “nitpicky,” and being correct is somehow less important than being confidently incorrect.

So now we just… move on.

We accept it.
We absorb it.
We watch the English language slowly become a group project where nobody proofreads, but everyone insists it’s fine.

And I guess it is fine.

It’s just also annoying.