The end of the school year is often marked with a bittersweet blend of celebration and reflection, but this one carried a particular weight. Sitting in the classroom after the final bell had rung, I could still feel the faint hum of energy from the day’s ceremonies, the laughter, the tears, and the quiet nods of recognition. This year’s Class 6 cohort was officially moving on, and with them, I was closing another cycle as their class teacher. It is not just a line on a calendar that marks this change — it is a shift in identity. Being a class teacher is not merely a job, it is a role that consumes space in the heart and mind, shaping the rhythm of every day and the lens through which life is viewed.
The ceremonies were beautiful, filled with small touches that reminded me why I do this work. Parents and students gathered, voices catching during speeches, eyes glistening with the realization that this moment would not come again. We shared meals, exchanged stories, and offered each other words of gratitude. My students, no longer children but not quite adults, stood tall and proud, ready to step into the next stage of their lives. I could not help but feel a surge of pride mixed with an almost parental sadness — pride for the growth they had shown and sadness for the quiet emptiness that would follow their departure.
Teaching has always been more than content delivery; it is the weaving of a community. For the better part of a year, the classroom becomes a shared world. Every success, every challenge, every quiet struggle is carried together, and by the time the end arrives, the bond is undeniable. Handing them off to their next adventure feels like a kind of loss, not because I am not glad to see them grow, but because they have been such a large part of my life. There is a rhythm to checking in on them every morning, encouraging them when they falter, cheering them when they succeed, and sharing the laughter that makes even the hardest days worthwhile.
When the last parent left and the room was quiet again, I sat down at one of the desks and let the stillness wash over me. The bulletin boards were half-empty, the books stacked neatly for the next teacher, and the chairs pushed in as if awaiting a new set of occupants. It struck me how much of my own sense of purpose had been tied up in this space, in these routines. To step away from it is to step into something unknown. This is not the first time I have gone through the transition — teachers live in cycles — but each time feels different. The faces, the personalities, the little triumphs and trials are unique, and they leave a distinct impression.
What comes next is an open question, and that carries its own mix of apprehension and excitement. Without a class to call my own, there is a kind of breathing space I have not had for years. There is an opportunity to reflect on what this role has meant, on how it has shaped me, and on what I want to carry forward. There is also a need to rediscover the parts of myself that have been quietly set aside while tending to the daily demands of teaching — the hobbies, the creative pursuits, and the quiet moments that remind me that life exists outside of lesson plans and parent meetings.
This is where games have often come into the picture. Over the years, board games have been both a source of joy and a means of unwinding. They engage the mind differently, inviting strategy, creativity, and often a good dose of humor. They also create space for connection — with friends, with family, and even with myself. In the days following the end of the school year, as I adjusted to the absence of daily classroom life, I found myself reaching for my phone to sneak in a quick play of Patchwork or Agricola: All Creatures Big and Small. These little gaming interludes became both distraction and comfort, offering something structured to focus on when the structure of the school day was gone.
Patchwork, with its quiet tension and spatial puzzle, was the perfect game to play when I needed something calming yet engaging. The rhythm of choosing pieces, fitting them together, and slowly watching the board fill up was soothing. Agricola: All Creatures Big and Small offered a different kind of satisfaction — a taste of the larger, more complex farming game distilled into a short, escalating challenge. There is something immensely rewarding about managing limited resources well and watching a tiny farm come to life, even in digital form.
Then there was Hey, That’s My Fish, a game that never fails to bring a mischievous grin to my face. Cutting off the AI’s penguins and watching them drift away with fewer and fewer hexes to move to is both strategic and faintly hilarious. The theme may be lighthearted, but the tactical depth is surprisingly rich, and there is a quiet delight in outmaneuvering an opponent — even a digital one. Kahuna, too, found its way into rotation, its elegant area control mechanics feeling almost like a fencing match. Every placement and every removal of a bridge feels deliberate, and the ebb and flow of control across the islands is deeply satisfying.
These games, small as they may seem, helped mark the transition from one phase of life to the next. They reminded me that while one chapter was closing, another was opening, and there were still ways to bring joy and challenge into the day. They offered brief escapes but also moments of clarity. In the quiet after a game, I often found myself reflecting on my students, on the year, and on what lay ahead.
If anything, this period of change has reaffirmed how essential it is to find balance. Teaching can be all-consuming, filling every hour if you let it. Games — whether digital or physical — provide a counterweight, a reminder that play is as necessary as work, that curiosity does not end when the school bell rings, and that joy can be found in small, deliberate choices. As I look toward the next year, when I will not have a class of my own, I know there will be a mix of relief and longing. There will be moments when I miss the noise and bustle of the classroom, the inside jokes, and the shared victories. But there will also be room to breathe, to reset, and to rediscover the things that nourish creativity and joy.
The cycle of teaching is one of beginnings and endings, of hellos and goodbyes. This ending, like the others before it, carries its own weight, but it also holds the promise of what comes next. It is a time to reflect, to celebrate, and to prepare for the next adventure — whatever that might be.
Celebrations, Game Nights, and Finding Connection
When the first week of post-classroom life rolled around, Friday gaming night arrived as it always does — a familiar ritual that offers structure and comfort. This week, though, it carried a little extra meaning. It coincided with Sos’s birthday, which meant cake, laughter, and the chance to let him take the reins on what we would play. There was something liberating about walking into that evening without the weight of planning lessons or mentally reviewing the next day’s schedule. The transition away from being a class teacher was still fresh, and it felt good to lean into the rhythm of gaming with friends, marking the passage of time with something joyful.
We began with World Wonders, a game that has steadily grown on me the more we play it. It is a puzzly, tactical experience where each choice feels impactful, and each player’s strategy unfolds across the table in ways that invite both admiration and envy. Sos, clearly inspired by previous plays, came prepared this time. He had learned from Fee and me to surround his provinces, a tactic we had used to great effect in earlier games. In a delicious turn of events, we completely failed to repeat our success, and Sos hammered us with a 10-plus point victory.
That moment of reversal was more than just a game outcome. It was a reminder that growth and learning are not confined to classrooms. Sos had taken what he had observed, internalized it, and then applied it better than we had. There was a teacher’s pride in that moment, even if it came at the cost of losing the game. It made me think of how satisfying it is to see someone grow into mastery, whether in academics or gaming. The ability to adapt, to refine a strategy, to take knowledge and turn it into action — those are exactly the kinds of skills I want to see in my students, and here they were, mirrored back to me over a board game.
World Wonders is a game with a certain meditative quality despite its competitive nature. It asks you to balance short-term gains with long-term planning, to weigh whether it is worth grabbing a tile early or waiting to see if something better comes along. This balance of patience and timing felt fitting for my own life just then. Stepping away from teaching meant entering a season where there was no immediate rush to fill every gap with something new. Like in the game, it was a chance to let the board develop, to watch how the options unfolded before deciding on the next move.
After World Wonders, we moved on to Alhambra, a game Sos always enjoys picking, even if I was initially lukewarm about it. Over time, though, I have learned to simply go with the flow when playing it, to embrace its particular rhythm and quirks. There is a strange pleasure in working with what the game gives you, even if that means building a wall that twists and turns in unexpected ways. This time, I found myself taking difficult tiles in the early game, which led to some awkward wall placements, but by the end, I had created my signature long wall and secured enough points to come in a respectable second place.
Once again, Sos took the win, his second of the night, and I couldn’t even be disappointed. There was a sense of celebration in seeing him enjoy the games so much, of letting him steer the evening and watching his delight grow with each victory. Birthdays should be about joy, and here we were, crafting an evening full of shared stories and laughter. It also struck me how gaming brings out the best in social moments. The table becomes a place where hierarchy dissolves, where everyone meets as equals regardless of experience or age, and where each choice contributes to a shared narrative.
Our final game of the night was Dropolter, a dexterity game from Oink Games that never fails to produce groans, cheers, and sudden fits of laughter. Its simplicity is deceptive — balancing bells while trying to complete your objective becomes increasingly challenging as more bells are added to your hand. We started gently, warming up with open-palm play before moving to the more difficult closed-fist variation. I surprised myself by winning the first two games, but Sos was determined to claim victory at least once.
The third game became a rollercoaster of fortune. At one point, I won four bells in a row, only to lose three in quick succession. The table buzzed with energy as the outcome shifted back and forth, each turn bringing a fresh burst of tension and excitement. Sos finally managed to pull ahead, clinching the win and securing his third victory of the night. His grin was infectious, and the whole room felt lighter for it.
Looking back on that evening, what stands out most is not the scores or even the games themselves but the sense of connection they created. There is something uniquely powerful about shared play, about leaning over a table together, laughing at mistakes, cheering at clever moves, and groaning at unexpected twists. It is a form of storytelling where everyone is a co-author, and by the end of the night, we had woven a little narrative of celebration, rivalry, and triumph together.
Gaming nights like this serve as grounding rituals, especially during times of personal transition. They remind me that while some parts of life may be in flux — identity, routine, professional roles — there are constants that can be relied upon. The game table is one of those constants. It is a space where creativity and camaraderie meet, where the mind is engaged and the heart is lightened.
It is also a space that invites mindfulness. Each turn demands focus, but not the draining, all-consuming focus of work. Instead, it is a playful kind of attention, one that sharpens the senses and keeps you present. The tactile nature of games — the feel of tiles, the clink of tokens, the act of shuffling cards — grounds you in the here and now. It is difficult to dwell too much on what was or what might be when you are fully engaged in the puzzle in front of you.
This is perhaps why games have been such a vital part of my life, both as a teacher and now in this in-between space. They are bridges between moments, ways to connect with others, but also with myself. They are reminders that life is richer when approached with curiosity and playfulness, even when serious transitions are underway.
As the night wound down and the last crumbs of cake were cleared away, I felt a sense of quiet satisfaction. The day had been full — not in the way a teaching day is full, with demands and obligations — but full in a way that felt nourishing. There had been celebration, laughter, shared struggle, and shared triumph. There had been moments of deep focus and moments of lighthearted silliness. And as I packed away the last of the game components, I realized that these nights were more than just diversions. They were reminders of what it means to connect, to be present, to create joy deliberately.
Weekend Visits, Trivia Battles, and Record-Breaking Azul
The weekend arrived with the kind of bustling energy that only happens when family visits. My brother came by, and so did the in-laws, turning the house into a lively meeting place filled with chatter, clinking cups, and the sound of children’s feet scuffing across the floor. Something is grounding about having family over, especially in this transitional period. It reminds me that identity isn’t built on a single role or title. Even if I’m no longer a class teacher, I’m still a sibling, a child, a partner, a friend. These roles remain constant even as other aspects of life shift.
With the house so full, I wanted to choose activities that would bring everyone together rather than fragment into separate corners. And as usual, board games became the natural focal point. There’s a certain magic to the way games can transform a room full of people into a shared space of focus and laughter. It doesn’t matter if someone hasn’t played a game in years or if they don’t consider themselves a “gamer”; when the box hits the table and the rules are explained, everyone becomes part of the same little universe.
I started us off with “…I should have known that!”, a trivia game that flips the usual scoring on its head. Instead of rewarding what you know, it deducts points for what you miss, making the lowest score the winner. This twist immediately drew everyone in, partly because it was so unexpected. There is something freeing about a game that doesn’t expect perfection but instead finds humor in what you don’t know.
We divided into three teams, each representing a different generation. It was an unspoken experiment to see how the questions would play out across age groups, and I was delighted to find that the balance was surprisingly fair. The questions seemed to tap into a wide range of knowledge bases — some leaning toward history, others toward pop culture, and some toward science or general trivia.
The match quickly became more than just a test of knowledge; it became a celebration of what each generation could contribute. My in-laws pulled answers from decades of life experience, referencing events that my brother and I had only ever read about. Meanwhile, my brother and I supplied the answers that leaned more toward modern references, technology, or music from the past few decades. Now and then, we surprised each other, each team pulling a rabbit out of the hat with an answer no one expected them to know.
There were bursts of laughter when a team got something hilariously wrong or when someone blurted out an answer they were sure was right but turned out to be absurdly off-base. It was the kind of laughter that cuts across age barriers, the kind that softens the sharp edges of competition and turns it into pure enjoyment. By the end of the game, the Boomers had clinched the win by a single point — a narrow margin that felt just right for a night meant to bring everyone together.
The trivia game had done its job, warming everyone up and setting a playful tone for the evening. After clearing the table and grabbing fresh drinks, I pulled out Azul, a game that remains one of my favorites for its balance of beauty, strategy, and accessibility. I challenged my brother to a match, eager to see how he would take to it.
Azul is one of those games that looks deceptively simple. The tiles are gorgeous, satisfying to hold, and easy to place, but the decisions they force you to make are surprisingly deep. You can see where you want to go, but so can your opponent, and the game becomes a dance of timing, denial, and opportunity.
To my delight, my brother took to it immediately. He was cautious at first, testing the waters, but soon he was fully engaged, blocking me at just the right moments and setting himself up for clever tile combinations. He beat me in our first game, which honestly made me happier than if I had won. There’s something wonderful about watching someone discover a new game and click with it right away.
Of course, I wasn’t about to let that stand as the final word. We reset the board and went again. This time, something clicked for me. The tiles fell my way, the combinations lined up perfectly, and I managed to have what was probably the most successful game of Azul I have ever played. When the final points were tallied, I had scored a staggering 103 points — a personal record that left me both surprised and quietly proud.
To soften the blow of what had essentially been a thrashing, I decided to gift my brother the game. It felt like the right thing to do, a way of sharing not just a game but an experience we could now revisit whenever we saw each other. I even tried to nudge him toward Carcassonne, another masterpiece that I think he would love, but the box art didn’t capture him, and I didn’t push it. Sometimes it’s better to let curiosity take its own time to grow.
That exchange — gifting a game, sharing a passion — felt like more than just a transaction. It felt like planting a seed. Maybe next time we meet, he’ll bring Azul back out, or maybe he’ll have played it with someone else and have stories of his own to tell. Games have a way of creating continuity across time and distance, of becoming touchstones in relationships.
The whole weekend felt like a microcosm of what makes gaming so special. It wasn’t just about winning or losing, though those moments added spice to the experience. It was about the shared table, the passing of tiles and trivia cards, the collective groans and cheers, the way everyone leaned in to be part of the moment. It was about watching people I love engage with something I love, and in doing so, feeling a little more connected to them.
There was also a quiet satisfaction in realizing that these moments were possible because I wasn’t mentally elsewhere. In the past, a weekend like this might have been shadowed by thoughts of Monday morning — lessons to prepare, assignments to grade, a week to plan. But now there was space. I could be fully present, playing Azul with my brother, without half my mind rehearsing what I would say to the class next week.
This presence is something I don’t want to lose. It is easy to fill space with new busyness, to rush from one identity to another, but weekends like this remind me of the value of slowing down, of creating time to simply be with the people around me.
As Sunday drew to a close and the house quieted again, I found myself reflecting on how games had transformed the weekend. They had provided a structure for togetherness, a way to connect across generations, a reason to laugh, compete, and cheer. They had made the house feel alive with stories, both told and enacted through play.
Folding Dolphins, Finding Gracie, and Rediscovering Quiet Joys
After the whirlwind of family gatherings, late-night gaming sessions, and laughter echoing through the house, the following days felt quieter — not empty, but softer. There’s a particular stillness that comes after a weekend like that, one where the house holds a lingering warmth even as it returns to its usual rhythm. It was in that calm that I found myself gravitating toward something more meditative: origami.
Origami has always had a strange pull for me. It is equal parts art, puzzle, and mindfulness exercise. There’s something so grounding about taking a simple square of paper and coaxing it into a shape, layer by layer, fold by fold. The process requires patience and attention, but it also rewards creativity and persistence.
Dolphins were on my mind this time, perhaps inspired by the games we had been playing about marine life, or maybe just because there is something joyful about their shape — sleek, playful, dynamic. I searched through my collection of books for a fresh design to try. It became a mini quest, flipping through pages of Marine Origami, only to find nothing that matched the vision I had in my mind. One Water One World, a beautiful book in its own right, also failed me in this moment.
Finally, I turned to a volume from the Vietnam Origami Group, and there it was: a design by Lanh Due Canh that felt just right. It had a smooth elegance to it, a balance of form and detail that promised to be both challenging and rewarding. I gathered a few sheets of kami paper and began the process.
The first attempt was, as first attempts often are, more of a conversation with the paper than a polished result. My folds were careful but not perfect, my reference points slightly off here and there, but that’s the charm of origami — it is forgiving in its own way. Each fold teaches you something, and each mistake is a gentle nudge to try again.
By the end of the first dolphin, I felt that quiet satisfaction of seeing something take shape under my hands. It wasn’t flawless, but it was recognizably a dolphin, and more importantly, it carried with it the memory of the process. I left it on the table as a small reminder that not everything has to be rushed, that beauty can come from taking time.
This practice of folding, of creating something with deliberate, careful steps, mirrored what I was starting to crave in my life overall. After years of teaching cycles that moved at breakneck speed, of being defined by schedules and bells and deadlines, I was now in a space where I could slow down and create something at my own pace. The dolphin became a metaphor, in a way — a small, folded emblem of patience, renewal, and quiet joy.
It was around this time that Gracie came into our lives. The house had been a little too quiet since the loss of our previous cat, leaving a subtle emptiness that was hard to ignore. When we brought Gracie home from the rescue shelter, she was timid at first, exploring cautiously, tail low, her big eyes taking in every corner of the new space.
There was something incredibly moving about watching her adjust, watching her go from wary to curious, and eventually from curious to comfortable. The first time she curled up on the couch beside us, purring softly, it felt like a small but important milestone. She was claiming the space, and in some way, claiming us as hers.
Gracie’s presence brought a kind of gentle rhythm back to the house. Cats have their own way of setting the pace of a home — a reminder to pause, to notice, to be present. She would follow me from room to room, curious about whatever I was doing, and I found myself talking to her, narrating small tasks, laughing at her antics when she discovered a sunbeam or a bit of string.
It’s remarkable how an animal can fill a space not just physically but emotionally. Gracie became a companion during quiet moments, a soft reminder that companionship doesn’t always have to be loud or busy. Her talkative nature made her even more endearing; she seemed to have an opinion on everything, and I found myself answering her as if we were in a conversation.
This new rhythm — folding paper into dolphins, having Gracie sit nearby, occasionally batting at the finished models — felt like the right counterbalance to the busy weekends of gaming and social gatherings. It reminded me that joy comes in many forms. There is joy in the raucous celebration of a birthday, in the friendly competition of Azul or trivia, but there is also joy in the quiet act of folding a piece of paper and placing it on a shelf, in hearing a small cat purr against your leg.
In many ways, this period has been about rediscovering balance. The transition away from being a class teacher could have left me feeling adrift, and in some moments it still does, but it also opened up space for these other parts of my life to grow. Games, family time, origami, and caring for Gracie all contribute to a life that feels fuller and more intentional.
Even the challenges — like losing to Sos three games in a row on his birthday — feel less frustrating and more like part of a shared story, something to laugh about later. These moments are not just diversions but threads that are weaving a new pattern for this next chapter of life.
I have begun to think of these experiences as small anchors. Each game night, each folded animal, each quiet moment with Gracie is an anchor point that keeps me steady while I navigate the waters of change. They remind me that identity is not something that has to be rigidly defined. It can be fluid, shifting, adapting to new circumstances while still holding on to the core of who I am.
As the days pass, I find myself looking forward to the next family visit, to the next new game we will discover together, to the next origami challenge that will test my patience and skill. There’s a quiet excitement in that, a sense of anticipation that doesn’t feel rushed or pressured. It feels like stepping into a new cycle, not as a teacher tied to a classroom but as a person exploring new ways to connect, create, and grow.
Conclusion
Saying goodbye to a class and stepping away from being a class teacher has been both freeing and unsettling, a moment that feels like closing a chapter while still holding the weight of its significance. The last cycle was full of memories, challenges, and growth, but it also left me craving space to rediscover myself outside the role. What followed was a season of balance — of filling weekends with gaming, celebrating Sos’s birthday victories, sharing cake and competition, and reconnecting with family and friends over laughter and strategy. These moments of play reminded me that connection can be as restorative as it is fun.
Alongside the noise of game nights came the quiet of folding paper dolphins and the gentle presence of Gracie, whose arrival brought new warmth to the house. These quieter joys have been just as meaningful as the louder ones, grounding me in mindfulness and reminding me that growth can happen in stillness, too.
This transition has taught me that life is not about rushing to define what comes next but about embracing the mix of moments — the playful, the reflective, the challenging — and allowing them all to shape the person I am becoming.
As the year closed and the final bell faded, I found myself standing in the quiet aftermath of a cycle that had shaped me for so long. Being a class teacher is more than a role — it is an identity, one that slowly seeps into the corners of your life until it feels inseparable from who you are. Letting go of that role was not just about saying goodbye to students, but also about releasing a rhythm of life I had grown accustomed to.
In the weeks that followed, I rediscovered how much joy could be found in small, simple things. A quick game before bed, a shared laugh over a tricky tile placement, the warm chaos of family dinners, even the meditative process of folding paper into dolphins — each moment became a reminder that there is life outside the classroom. Games became a way to connect, reset, and rediscover curiosity, while new routines began to gently fill the spaces left behind.