I never wanted to be a principal. Being a teacher was my goal ever since I was a 13-year-old reformed punk. So when we were working on the RFP for our new school, I envisioned myself as the lead teacher — handling instruction while someone else managed operations.
But when we interviewed principals, none of them fit. They were experts at what happened yesterday, perfectly positioned to be good administrators. We needed someone ready for what was coming next, someone ready to go to battle for our mission and vision. So I threw my hat in the ring — and I didn't even have my administrative credential yet. The superintendent, familiar with our work and vision, took an unprecedented step — hiring me as the district's first principal without completed credentials. I finished the requirements just weeks before opening the school in September 2011.
The mission of our new school was simple but profound: build a school worthy of our own children while addressing issues of social justice. Our success wasn't because we cherry-picked students or had a magic formula—it came from clear values and systems that supported our vision.
When Teachers Start Small and Dream Big
The seeds of our school were planted when two teachers—myself in history and a colleague in English—discovered a shared vision for deeper learning. In 2000, we agreed to integrate my lessons on World War I history with her lessons on All Quiet on the Western Front. That collaboration grew into something bigger than either of us imagined.
The school within the school model was gaining traction in the early 2000s. At our high school, we were one of several small learning communities. Freshmen entered into one of three houses that would prepare them for high school, then they'd choose their pathway — including ours — for grades 10-12. We built our program gradually, getting our 10th grade solid before adding 11th and 12th.
When students struggled in our program, we were relentlessly curious and insisted on finding out why. Any student who hasn't had their basic needs met isn't going to be available to learn. Sometimes we discovered they had a rotten tooth and needed a dentist. Sometimes they couldn't see the whiteboard and needed glasses. We started bringing in community resources not because we were trying to be a "community school" — we were just trying to be a school. A student with a toothache isn't available to learn calculus.
Our approach worked. Our program developed a reputation for being highly academic, and other teachers would say, "Well, you have all the good kids." I'd tell them, "Maybe I have some good kids, but why don't you ask yourself what else we're doing that seems to be working?" I was amazed that there were educators so willing to tear us down rather than work with us.
Breaking New Ground
When the district announced the opening of four new learning academies, we put in our bid. We saw a chance to build something from the ground up. Fourteen entities competed for these schools — charters, private schools, public schools, and pilot schools like us. After a year-long process with community input, we were chosen as one of four schools.
As a pilot school, we had five key freedoms: professional development, budget, staffing, curriculum, and scheduling. These weren't just perks — they were tools to build what our students needed. We wrote an agreement outlining our shared values and expectations, and everyone had to sign on. Starting with 50 shared values, we boiled them down to our core: empathy, compassion, curiosity, integrity, love — our blueprint.
Our mission was to develop the whole child and increase their social capital. Our vision — what were we striving for in the future — evolved alongside our school. It became “We will achieve self-actualization” — in other words, become our best selves. We knew we might never fully get there. Our vision was aspirational — that was the point.
The mission and vision held us all to high standards, starting with me. Every year, I presented my beliefs to the staff. They evaluated me and could choose to keep me or let me go. I saw myself as a steward of the school, leading by modeling.
The Results Tell Our Success Story
Talent is everywhere, but opportunity isn't. Some educators believe not all students should go to college. While college isn't the only path to success, deciding who can make it isn't our job. We need to give students a fighting chance by opening doors and inviting them to walk through. I told our students that there was no room they didn't belong in, no table they didn’t have a seat at.
That's why we focused on A-G requirements as our baseline for graduation — the classes students need to qualify for college. Other schools boosted graduation rates with classes like cosmetology. A student might graduate, but without real preparation, their choices were pretty limited. A diploma alone isn't enough anymore.
The numbers tell our story. When the district posted 84% graduation rates with only 56% of students completing college requirements, we maintained 99% in both. That's what I call congruence — high graduation rates AND high college readiness. The gap between these two numbers is the real opportunity gap in education. We weren't just getting kids across the graduation stage. We were ensuring they had real choices both to and through college..
The system worked because we found where everyone's interests met. The district needed high metrics — we delivered those. In return, we got freedom to innovate. Even after I left, in 2019 the school maintained 99% success rates. That's how I know we built something real.
Never Let the Job Eclipse the Work
Leadership in education isn't a position. It's a choice you make every day. If you don't know who you are or what you stand for, you can't build something meaningful. Vision statements too often become part of the lexicon — something filed away after a two-day training. But at our school, our values drove every decision.
When people ask me how we succeeded, I tell them it wasn’t magic. We kept asking questions when students struggled instead of finding excuses or someone to blame. We kept looking at data, but data with a soul — seeing the whole student behind the numbers. We kept showing up and finding new ways to meet our students' needs. It was about recognizing we couldn’t do everything, but we could always do something.
We focused on building something worthy of our own children. My children attended my school. That's the ultimate testament.
I have a tattoo of a bow and arrow on my arm, a visual inspired by the Kahlil Gibran poem, "On Children.” It reminds me that teachers are the bows from which students are launched toward their potential. Our job is to be that steady bow, to create the conditions that let our students fly far. The tattoo also reminds me that we are also the arrows and we need to hit our target in the infinite. In other words, our job in this life is to help others reach their potential — as we have an obligation to reach our own.
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Let's talk about how to launch your students toward new possibilities. Connect with me to discuss speaking engagements, leadership coaching, or school transformation consulting.
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