Three years ago, I sat in my bed processing the COVID-19 closure. I started journaling in the notes app on my phone to help process the anxiety and worry I was feeling. I have vivid memories of the words blurring together on the screen. The tears streaming down my face while I poured all my fears into the note that was intended to be just for me. The next evening I attended a Zoom happy hour with some colleagues, many who were sharing the same fears that I was. Eventually, my article called I’m An Early Educator, and I am Worried… came out of that journaling. The article discussed concerns for our children and their families, the center where I worked, and my concerns for the ECE field as a whole.

 That uncertainty has lingered for the last three years. Each new hurdle towards “normal” approached quickly, but somehow also in slow motion. Navigating how to run a developmentally appropriate classroom when medical experts were saying staying apart was how we can protect each other. Having to find creative ways to incorporate sensory materials when we were discouraged from using them for fear of spreading COVID. Finding new opportunities for connecting in person during what was typically a season for bonding. Discussing expectations for masking and navigating the many worries and fears that caregivers were facing about their family’s health. Each step a new path into the unknown.

 I mentioned in the first article that COVID snuck up on us, stopping us in our tracks. Yet here we are, three years later still figuring it all out. How do we avoid spreading COVID when the CDC guidelines and doctors disagree on what strategies are best for quarantining? How do we provide staff with time to heal, while also holding together barebones staffing? How do we determine that a child should be sent home when for some children COVID just looks like a runny nose? Sometimes there is no “right” answer and that alone is something that can be difficult to process.

 If I am honest, many worries still linger for me. I wonder just how resilient children are, especially with all the research that shows the impact childhood trauma has well into adulthood. Iworry about the long term effects of COVID and the physical consequences it can have. I worry about climate change, school shootings and so many other events that will continue to shape these children’s lives beyond the pandemic. I empathize with the parents who were barely managing prior to covid who have been deeply impacted by COVID closures and who may be navigating their own grief. I think about Early Childhood Education and the repercussions this has had on a field that was barely hanging on as is.  

 While I hold onto and honor my feelings of worry, I also choose to look beyond it. I remember the joy in seeing the children come back to school for the first time after months of isolation. I think about their excitement when they got their very one container of playdough to keep in their cubby. I recall the bonds built within the classroom of 16 children as opposed to the usual 24. I relish the moments of our first gatherings when families could come back into our class. I think fondly of the excitement the children had when they could finally play in the large sensory bins again.

 What I think hits me most is that many of the children we have in our programs may not have tangible memories of this time, but they will remember so much. The ways we as adults have responded and continue to respond to uncertain times will be ingrained in them long after we as educators are part of their lives. I choose to feel proud of the opportunities that lay ahead for children as they become changemakers and advocates. I become excited at the change I already see happening across the Early Childhood Education field, as we advocate for the recognition early educators have always deserved. I find joy in the chatter of parents as they watch their children play after school. In the end, when I have all this worry, I choose to feel hopeful for the future instead.