Sticky Hands & Tough Calls: My First Year as a Principal

I was over the moon when I signed my very first contract to become elementary school principal. It felt like getting the golden ticket—except instead of chocolate, I was about to unwrap a whole community of students, parents, and staff (with a few nuts in the mix for good measure)

From the get-go, I dove into PTO meetings, one-on-ones with staff, and parent coffee gatherings that could have fueled a small army. I even found myself in the City of St. Louis, meeting with parents from the Voluntary Transfer Program, and hosting “Popsicles with the Principal”—which, incidentally, is the quickest way to sticky hands and happy kids. Every meeting felt like a new episode of “Who’s Who at my new school?” and I relished every moment, soaking in wisdom and ice pop drips alike as I embarked on this adventure in leadership.

At each gathering, I had three trusty questions up my sleeve: 1) What’s worth celebrating about our school? 2) What challenges are facing our learning community? 3) And, if you had a magic wand, what would you tweak to make our learning community even better? I took copious notes, listened for patterns, and announced a big stakeholders’ meeting for the start of school. That way, I could check my understanding, and we could map our journey—honoring the past, wrestling with the present, and plotting for a future characterized by a safe learning environment, high academic achievement, and warm, joyful supportive relationships for learning.

But I was not prepared for the tidal wave of concern (not to mention a touch of drama) about certain teachers. When I brought it up with the school secretary, she bristled, “Oh, you’ll see soon enough—these parents think they own the place!” It wasn’t just parents, though; students and staff joined the chorus, singling out one teacher in particular who seemed to have won the school’s “Most Avoided Educator” award year after year.

So, I made a tough call in the beginning of my career: I sent a classic August welcome letter home, full of important dates—and snuck in a line that we’d no longer be taking specific teacher requests. Gulp. Class assignments would be decided by the school, PERIOD!

Cue the phones ringing off the hook, emails flooding in, PTO board demanding an “All School” meeting, and board members calling Central Office. I stuck to my principle: no group meetings about individual kids. Instead, I met with parents one at a time. The main concern wasn’t academics—it was, “We just want our kids to love school!” and, “Please, can my child have a warm, caring teacher?” I agreed wholeheartedly. I promised that every Bristol classroom would be a place of learning, joy, and mutual respect, even if I couldn’t promise Ms. or Mr. Sunshine as a homeroom teacher.

Honesty, I decided, was the best policy—so I told the staff exactly what I’d promised. We agreed to define what a warm, supportive classroom looked and sounded like. But this one staff member clearly needed more than a pep talk. Ms. W. came in ready for battle, declaring, “I just have high standards!” I handed her the stack of parent letters. She browsed them, shrugged, and stuck to her story. Me? If I’d received even a fraction of those letters, I’d have considered a career as a server at Red Lobster.

Sticking to my new process, I placed one of the most vocal parent’s children in Ms. W.’s class (with fair warning, of course—the mom hung up on me). I made a support plan: a beloved teaching assistant joined the class, I conducted daily walk-throughs and met weekly with Mrs. W., and Mrs. W. crafted weekly newsletter updates. The counselor gave her tips on affirming language, and one courageous parent led a campaign to flood her with positive notes. By October, the storm had calmed, and even the PTO realized I was in it for real change.

As for Ms. W.—she worked through the checklist but always seemed to be acting for compliance, not compassion. As Donald Clifton quipped, “You can’t teach a pig to sing.” We are who we are, and, in Ms. W.’s case, her heart never quite warmed. She retired at year’s end, hopefully to a place with fewer negative letters and more peace.

And so, we all moved forward, a little wiser, a little braver, and with plenty of sticky hands and hopeful hearts for the journey ahead. If that year taught me anything, it’s that leadership is rarely about certainty; it’s about courage in the face of uncertainty, and the willingness to listen even when what you hear is uncomfortable. I learned that transparency and honesty—though sometimes met with resistance—build a stronger foundation of trust than any appeasement or quick fix ever could. Real change doesn’t come from pleasing everyone, but from standing firm in your values and extending support to those who need a hand in growth.ng.” We are who we are, and, in Ms. W.’s case, her heart never quite warmed.

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