You know how sometimes you read that if you go back to what you loved doing when you were a little kid—four, five, or six—then that will tell you what your ideal occupation should be? Well, in my case, this is exactly true, because when I was a little girl, my favorite thing in the world was teaching my imaginary students all about reading and writing.

When I was a little girl, I had my own schoolroom (the south porch) where I “taught” my students. I went to Woolworth’s Five and Dime and bought not only writing and phonics workbooks but also grade books in which I kept meticulous records of my students’ attendance and grades. I made up names for all of them, and each had marks for participation, homework, and test scores. I stood at the front of my imaginary class and used my little chalkboard to go over grammar concepts. I called on students, reprimanded them for talking, and praised them for trying their best. Clearly, I was a child with an active imagination and a deep love of teaching.

Fast forward a few years, and there I was earning my Master’s degree in Counseling and beginning my career in mental health. Lord knows, I really wanted to teach, but counseling was a close second and paid a bit more. Then my husband came along and lured me into the world of antiques, and off I went on the adventure of learning about art, history, buying and selling, and small business ownership. That was an education in itself. As much as I enjoyed it, though, I still longed to teach. I wanted my students and my classroom back in my life. I couldn’t shake the allure of chalk dust on my fingertips.

Then I came to Los Angeles, and after my brother died and we were trying to figure out how to survive there, I answered five blind ads for teaching jobs in the LA Times, received five interviews, and was offered five positions. It was mid-summer, and these schools were likely desperate for teachers, but somehow I landed a job at one of the top private elementary schools in LA—the so-called “movie industry school.” I saw Jack Nicholson bringing his children to school and Jamie Lee Curtis walking through the halls. I was hired to teach fourth-grade Language Arts, and, of course, I was in heaven. No longer imaginary students, but real ones—bright, curious, and eager to write.

The problem came in the form of money—or the lack of it. Even though the school charged a hefty tuition, I was at the bottom of the totem pole, and my salary was hardly enough to help support our family in rural Texas, much less Los Angeles. So after one year and a long talk with my husband, I decided to look for a job out in the “real world,” hopefully with a higher salary attached. In the meantime, a few deep-pocketed parents approached me about working with their children during the summer while I searched. Would I be willing to teach writing privately? They would be happy to pay me well if I would.

That was twenty-five years ago. Those students grew into more students, and for many years, they came to my den for small-group lessons and one-on-one sessions. I sometimes even pulled out a chalkboard and went over grammar just as I had on the south porch. I didn’t need a grade book anymore, but I kept careful notes and watched them grow. They ranged from fourth grade all the way to adults. I praised them when they did well, shushed them when they were too talkative, and quietly recreated my five-year-old classroom almost every day.

Now, instead of seeing students in person, I meet with them on Zoom. The chalkboard has been replaced by a shared screen, but the heart of it is the same. We still talk about verbs and voice, structure and story. I still encourage, correct, and celebrate. And I couldn’t be happier.

There truly is wisdom in looking back at what you loved as a child to gain clarity about your work in the world. It has certainly worked for me. I could never shake that love I felt for teaching when I was five. And if I’m lucky, I’ll get to keep doing it until I’m eighty-five.