The room looked exactly the same. Six cranberry-colored tables arranged in the same place, the walls were still an off white, and the chalkboard had never been updated to a white board. The last time I was in that room I was in fourth grade and most likely wearing my corduroy overalls. When I returned to it, I was 24 and wearing something slightly more mature.

Before I turned the lights on and began the day, I took a moment to take in the fact that I had come full circle. I was about to teach elementary art in the same school and room where I had once been a student. While I knew I could get the students excited about art, I had no clue how to run a classroom.

That year I had been living at home and teaching art at a few local art centers while figuring out my next plan. When summer came, the elementary school I had once attended contacted me to see if I would be interested in substituting full time for a year as the art teacher. I wasn’t sure what that meant or what would come of it, but I said yes like I always do when a new opportunity knocks on my door. The panic and anxiety of having no idea how I will do something thrills me and forces me to figure it out. I like that.

The teacher who had taught in the art room before me was a gray-haired superhero in an apron. I know this because she was once my teacher. She was well known and well loved for her enthusiasm, charisma, strict rules and infamous birthday song. I remember being slightly intimidated by her when I was her student, but she had a gentle, grandmother-like approach that eased your nerves when you came aboard her tight ship.

She had taught at the school for 30-something years and before her retirement, had run her classroom like a well-oiled machine. Her instruction, planning and organization were frustratingly seamless. I am not sure what panicked me more, being in a real school as a real teacher or trying to fill the world’s biggest art shoes.

I wrote my name on the chalkboard and drew myself as a cartoon character while I waited for my first class to arrive. When the bell rang, my breath grew short as I prepared for chaos. To my surprise, the students walked in without talking and sat in their assigned seats. It amazed me that the students still followed her classroom rules even though she was not there to enforce them. She was just that good.

My first day was off to a smooth start. Maybe I ate a balanced breakfast that morning or maybe I let myself believe that the previous teacher‘s magic had rubbed onto me. There was a secret part of me that pretended I was her for a few minutes throughout the day, especially when I felt stressed or unsure of what I was doing. She always wore an apron, and I thought perhaps if I wore mine, I would instantly feel organized and clear-headed.

My mind over matter plan lasted for most of the first period, and then I felt like I was in a movie scene where everything gradually started to go wrong. It was if some out of tune soundtrack was following me around the room, syncing up to every slip of disorganization. One girl threw up everywhere, unfinished projects lined all the counter tops, I couldn’t find rulers, a fourth grader said I looked 12, and the Elmer’s glue tops tried to kill me. I wasn’t prepared for the amount of kids in each class, or the back-to-back class schedule, with just two minutes to prepare for the next class.

A teacher told me that all I had to do was stay “one step ahead of the kids” and it quickly became my mantra. I had no idea what I would do the next day, but I knew what I would do for the next class, so that was good enough for me.

Days passed and so did the weeks. The students were making wonderful artwork and they were even learning. When I took a step back halfway through the year, I was baffled at how I was pulling it off. I tried so hard to carry myself with confidence when talking to the other teachers in the school. And even in the hallway or on the way to the office, I kept my apron on to stay in character. Maybe it was silly, but it helped.

I never went to school to become a teacher, and I never knew I wanted to be a teacher until opportunity kept bugging me. I attended art school and had planned to become part of a big animation studio out in California. But by the time June arrived and the school year ended, I knew I was ready for another teaching experience. I also knew I would never forget my first chapter in my old art room.

Today, a few years later, as I stand in a new art room, one that is part of an art center of my very own, I look back on my moments of disorganization in my old classroom, including multiple pairs of paint-stained jeans, and am amazed at how much I learned. Before I turn the lights on, I set up the room in preparation for the students’ arrival. I move gracefully across the room while filling up water containers and gently pouring paint. A cleanup plan has been established and every student will know where to sit. I know exactly what I am doing because I am a dozen steps ahead of the students. But just in case, I will still put my apron on.