Confessions of a Montessori Teacher

At twenty years old, my life had come to a complete standstill. I was stuck in a chapter I hadn’t chosen and didn’t know how to escape. Because of immigration issues, my future felt sealed shut. I couldn’t legally work. I couldn’t legally attend school. Everything I had fought for during my high school years—including advocating for classes that actually challenged me—suddenly felt meaningless, as if it had all been erased.

I often describe that time as a dark tunnel with no sign of light. No exit. No reassurance that moving forward was even possible.

I survived by working under the table for a lawyer who underpaid me and subjected me to constant verbal abuse. I hated every minute of it, but it was my only source of income—the only way I could help my family. At home, everything was unraveling. My father was battling cancer. He had lost his job. We had lost our legal status. And somewhere along the way, I lost my will to keep going.

I like to say that I didn’t find Montessori—but that Montessori found me.

An opportunity opened up at a Montessori school, and with nothing to lose, I tried it. I fell in love almost immediately, even before fully understanding the philosophy behind it. It felt natural. It felt like common sense. Of course this was how children were meant to learn—moving, exploring, questioning, not confined to desks and worksheets. For the first time in years, something made sense.

That same year, the DACA program was announced. I applied and became part of the very first group to be approved. Suddenly, my life had direction again—a compass pointing north. For the first time in what felt like forever, the future didn’t feel completely out of reach.

The school didn’t just wait for me to receive my work permit—they embraced me. My lead teacher, who became my mentor, truly took me under her wing. She taught me everything. She never doubted me. She never stopped me from trying, experimenting, or making mistakes. Through her trust, I discovered something no one—including myself—would have ever guessed: my love for teaching.

For fourteen years, I taught Early Childhood. Children between the ages of three and six ruled my life—and I loved every single bit of it. I formed deep, meaningful connections with my students. I knew their quirks, their fears, their joys, their favorite works on the shelf. I loved them unconditionally. I guided them through their learning journeys, and in return, I learned just as much from them.

Drawings. Poorly made bracelets. Randomly shaped leaves. I kept it all—tiny mementos from beautiful souls who, without ever realizing it, saved me.

Depression is not unfamiliar to me; it is an old companion that has followed me since childhood. By the time Montessori found me, incredibly dark thoughts had already taken hold, and I struggled to see a point in being here at all. And yet, day after day, the children changed that. Their curiosity, their eagerness to learn, their laughter and quiet moments of focus reminded me that there is always something to hope for, something to smile about, a reason to keep dreaming. As someone who still considers herself a child at heart, being surrounded by them reshaped my outlook on life and reminded me—gently but persistently—that even in a dark world, hope still exists.

Montessori became more than a workplace for me—it became a safe haven. Inside those classrooms, I witnessed the true power of the Montessori method: children becoming independent, confident, compassionate human beings; learning driven by curiosity instead of fear; classrooms built on respect rather than control. It healed something in me while allowing me to help nurture something beautiful in them. And that is what makes this moment so difficult to admit—because the stress I feel today is not due to a loss of faith in Montessori. I still believe deeply that it is one of the best ways for children to learn and grow. What has changed is everything around it. The increasing conflicts, pressures, and expectations placed on teachers have slowly drained the joy from a work that once felt like home.

Fifteen years into this career, and in being completely honest with myself, I have to admit that my passion has slowly been overshadowed by the amount of discord that now surrounds the work. Difficult parent dynamics, unsupportive administrators, and the deep burnout that comes from caring for so many children with so many different needs and struggles have taken their toll. I no longer wake up excited to go to work; instead, I find myself bracing for the next issue, the next conflict, the next moment that will drain what little energy remains.

This blog is born from that truth.