Until this fall, the oft-asked question “what do you do” was easy for me to answer. “I’m a teacher,” or “I teach second grade.” Once, after a particularly mind-expanding week of teaching, I responded, “I teach kids to question extraterrestrial life!” (But that’s a different story.) 

Now, after 20 years, I am struggling to answer that fundamental question. What does it mean to be a Dean of Admission? How do I describe “what I do” to others? During a visit to one of Leelanau’s Learning Skills classrooms, I found an answer I’m trying on for size. 

Leelanau’s Learning Skills program helps students organize, advocate, plan, and succeed. I am proud to highlight the cornerstone of our curriculum on school tours and interviews. During a walkthrough, I interacted with sophomores finishing up an assessment of their Myers-Briggs personality tests. “Do you know what you are, Kate?” a student asked. 

I had not taken that particular test in years, so I logged on to find an answer for them. It turns out I’m a solid INFJ. (Introverted, Intuitive, Feeling, and Judging). This alphabet soup of initials has a nickname. “The Advocate.”

In my new role at Leelanau, I often meet with families who have not found the right fit for their child in school, large or small. They may be unseen, misunderstood, bored, or bullied. Some are battling bureaucracy to get an IEP for learning accommodations. Some kids come home in tears, sullen, or silent from unmanaged conflict. Few are jumping out of bed excited about the school day ahead.

These parents see the potential in their child and grieve that no one else seems to notice. They seek an advocate, someone to sit down, make eye contact with, and listen to their stories. They deserve a community that recognizes their child’s capacity for learning, wonder, and joy. And these families deserve someone to help them find the right-fit education, wherever it might be.

Recently, one of my close friends who has been visiting schools with her own daughter asked me, “Do you get a lot of people crying as they share their stories?” 

It’s easy to forget that education is deeply personal. Sharing your child/family’s personal journey can open you up to real vulnerability, leaving you scared, excited, overwhelmed, and perhaps, relieved. I do keep tissues in my office. I zoom day and evening, listening to stories laden with laughter and tears. I walk families around campus and make introductions. I sit with teens who aren’t used to feeling heard. I refer families to educational consultants and other resources when we are not the right fit. All of this is my honor.