Letting Go of Trophies

When I took over my first art room four years ago, it felt like stepping into an archaeological site. Every cabinet, drawer, and storage bin was a time capsule—layers of past projects, teacher eras, student interests, abandoned supplies, forgotten intentions.

If you’ve ever taught art, you know there are two kinds of art teachers: the minimalists who keep everything labeled and tidy, and the hoarders who see raw material in every scrap of cardboard, every outdated craft kit, every mysterious donation that shows up in the mailroom. I’ve always lived in between—loving the order of clean spaces (whenever that unicorn made an appearance) but deeply drawn to the wonderland of possibility.

I’ve never wanted to just manage materials. I wanted to create atmosphere for students to come alive and LEAD with their vision.
So, I tried to make an environment, a setting, that invited big ideas. And tried to teach by serving up whatever they asked for to make their ideas happen.

I wanted it to feel like a special art-themed party. Like summer camp. I made a chandelier out of old paintbrushes. A gigantic pencil. A huge cardboard lightbulb to symbolize creative ideas. I brought in thrifted treasures, personal art supplies, buckets of PVC pipe. I made signs. I made samples. I made magic. Not to show off—but to shape a world. To invite kids into a space that said: You matter. Your ideas matter. This is a place for wonder.

But this year?
This year has been different. And now, as I pack up that same classroom, I feel haunted by all the beauty I brought in.

As I pulled down decorations, I felt myself getting tired. Not physically tired—but spiritually heavy. I looked at the giant lightbulb made out of a 30” yellow paper lantern and thought: Does this still belong to me? Or is it just a trophy from a version of me that doesn’t fit anymore? I found myself asking that question over and over. About the art. About the supplies. About the room. About the job.

Then something strange started to happen.

One of my handmade decorations for the clay area fell and broke. The handle snapped off. I stared at it. Should I glue it? Should I save it?

And then it hit me: This is a sign.

Someone—or something—is forcing my hand to let go to open to something new. Sometimes, the break is the message.

When I got home with a bundle of salvaged PVC pipes - a trophy from our magical Project Launch last summer, they immediately tipped over and punched a hole through my giant paper lightbulb. The symbolism wrote itself.

Let. Go.

The past does not belong to me anymore.

So I kept cleaning. Sweeping the evidence of me from the corners of the room. And with every item I left behind—or threw away—I felt lighter. Not just because I was discarding old materials, but because I realized I don’t need trophies to prove I was here. I don’t need souvenirs to justify how deeply I cared or how hard I worked. That energy, that love, that vision—I carry that within me.

I am not the décor. I am not the bucket of supplies. I am not the broken clay prop or the framed poster that’s hung on my wall for years that feels like a lie now: “Dreams Don’t Work Unless You Do.”

I am the one who created the conditions for magic and empowerment. And because of this, I am the one who terrified Toxic Boss.

Let go.

The magic was real. And it’s not carried in the trophies.

It’s me - or rather my calling to hold space for self-expression.

It’s my belief in people that they can do amazing things right now.

They don’t have to wait to grow up.

They don’t have to wait for some authority figure’s permission.

I believe in them right now.