There’s a quiet kind of pride that doesn’t always show up in loud celebrations. Sometimes, it looks like staying. Sometimes, it looks like leaving.

For ten years, Boca Raton Community High School has been more than a workplace, it’s truly been a home, a proving ground, and, in so many ways, a mirror. I’ve grown up here alongside my students, learning just as much as I’ve taught. And if I’m being honest, there were moments, more than a few, where I questioned myself. Was I doing enough? Choosing the right path? Becoming the teacher, the writer, the person I hoped to be?

Growth doesn’t always feel inspiring in the moment. It can feel uncomfortable, uncertain, even lonely. But it’s necessary. And now, as I step into a new chapter at Spanish River Community High School in August, I realize that every doubt, every long night, every small win was shaping me for this.

Today, as we distribute our final issue of The Paw Print, printed as a newsmagazine, it all feels full circle. This program and class, these students, and this publication has meant so much to me, and they’ve been part of my heartbeat here.

Watching it evolve, and watching them evolve, has been one of the greatest honors of my life.

This year has also changed me in ways I’m still learning to understand. After losing my father, everything shifted. And yet, in that loss, I found something unexpected: my tribe. The people who held me up, the students who gave me purpose, the moments that reminded me to keep going. Somehow, I don’t just feel like their teacher, but I feel like I’m part of the Class of 2026, growing, grieving, celebrating, and stepping forward with them.

And I carry him with me. In every decision. In every leap of faith. I like to believe he’s watching over me, quietly reminding me that it’s okay to choose change, to choose growth, to choose what’s next.

This Friday, May 1st, I’ll stand at Florida Atlantic University to receive the Excellence in Adjunct Teaching Award. After ten years of teaching at the university level, this is a milestone that is so meaningful to me, because I truly pour my heart and soul into teaching every student that I’ve had throughout my career as an educator. My mother will be there, who is visiting from Puerto Rico, and I know, without a doubt, that my father will be there in spirit.

That moment will not be just about an award. It’s about everything it took to get there: the doubts, the resilience, the love.

Leaving Boca High isn’t easy. But staying the same would be harder.

So, I’m choosing to be proud. Of the teacher I’ve become. Of the risks I’m taking. Of my story that is still unfolding.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel certain of this: I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.