Hi, I’m Greig — welcome! Here you’ll find sharp writing, creative ideas, and standout resources for teaching, thinking, making, and dreaming in the middle and high school ELA and Humanities classroom (Grades 6–12).
Hey, y’all. I know social media is full of teachers talking about how tough this job is (and honestly … they’re not wrong). But today I’m flipping the script. Here are three things that make teaching amazing for me:
1. I’m a celebrity. Only at school, but still! Nothing beats leaving the building, turning a corner, and hearing, “Hey, Roselli!” from the same kids I was just trying to convince to take notes. I’ll take my hallway fame, thank you very much.
2. Kids' writing blows me away. As an ELA teacher, I get to watch kids put their hearts on the page. My 7th graders are writing about A Long Walk to Water right now, connecting the story to compassion, responsibility, and the suffering of others. Sometimes their insights stop me in my tracks. They’re that good.
3. The beautiful mirror effect. I’m older, I’ve got more mileage as a reader and thinker—but then I see students making connections, asking questions, and showing a spark that reminds me of my younger self. Sometimes they’re even sharper than I ever was. Watching their potential unfold is the best part of this job.
Sure, teaching is hard. But these moments? They’re why I stay.
(And yes, I’m rocking my Janus shirt. You can grab one on my store 😉)
Commuting, Teaching, and the Strange Existential Quiet of 7:00 A.M.
Since September, my day has begun at 5:00 a.m. in Queens. By 6:00, I’m on the E train heading for Washington Heights — an hour and twenty-five minutes of subterranean meditation before first bell. I transfer at Port Authority, usually early enough to glimpse the city before it fully wakes. By the time the A pulls into 168th Street, the sky is pulling its first threads of light across the station roof.
I walk past the old Croton Aqueduct tower; a reminder of a New York that once survived on a narrow ribbon of water; and up toward my school. But most mornings, I barely register the history around me. I’m thinking about lesson plans, attendance sheets, and the unpredictable weather systems known as seventh graders.
Teaching has its rituals: unlocking the classroom before anyone arrives, flipping on the lights, setting the day in motion before the din begins. By 7:55, the “buffalo” arrive — loud, hilarious, tender, exhausting. On good days, I can match their energy. On others, I’m simply the adult keeping the world stitched together.
This year, the work has felt especially existential — not in the dramatic, philosophical sense, but in the way teaching forces you to be utterly present. A sixth grader whispers she’s bleeding and needs the bathroom. A student confides heartbreak. Someone forgot breakfast. Another kid, sensing I am taking care of someone else, decides to pick up a chair in a show of strength. "Make good choices," I say, partly to them, partly to myself. Someone else forgot how to be twelve. You meet all of it with whatever grace you can muster.
Lately, though, I’ve felt something quieter: a strange numbness, the kind that slips in when the body is tired and the mind has carried too much. No one tells you in teacher school that caring deeply has a metabolic cost.
But here’s what I’m learning: numbness isn’t failure. It’s a signal. A reminder that even teachers—keepers of routines, holders of storms—need tending, too.
And tomorrow, at 5:00 a.m., the alarm will ring again.
The city will rise.
So will I.
Not because I’m unshakeable, but because this work—messy, human, and profoundly alive—still calls me back.
