There is a word I've been sitting with lately: sanctuary.

At its root, sanctuary means a place set apart. Sacred, protected, consecrated to something greater than the pressures of the ordinary world. Historically, sanctuaries were spaces where people could enter and know, with certainty, that they were safe. That the chaos outside could not follow them through the door.

I believe that is exactly what a school is meant to be. And right now, in this particular moment, I believe it more urgently than ever. Children cannot learn when they are afraid. This is not a philosophical position; it is a neurological fact, backed by decades of research in child development and the science of learning. When a child's nervous system is in a state of threat or hypervigilance, the parts of the brain responsible for curiosity, memory, and meaning-making simply cannot do their work. Safety is not the soft part of education. It is the foundation upon which everything else rests.

As we approach Monday, February 9th, there is a palpable energy in the hallways. Just yesterday, I was speed-walking to a meeting when a Unit student intercepted me. "Kim," they asked with genuine enthusiasm, "Are you excited about the trip?" I paused. For a microsecond, my brain didn't go to tropical breezes. It went to my inbox, the logistical challenge of leaving the office for a week, and the weight of ensuring dozens of children are safe across the ocean. But I shoved my internal "To-Do" list into a mental drawer, smiled, and said, "Of course I am." And the funny thing is, as soon as I said it, I realized it was true. I am excited for our school and students to have this opportunity!

As my favorite season of the year comes to a close, I find myself grateful for moments of connection, such as long conversations with my grown-up daughter and time spent with friends, which remind me how restorative it can be to slow down and be present. I hope you and your children’s time away was similarly restful and rejuvenating. 

As we return to school and move deeper into enrollment season for the 2026–2027 school year, I’ve been reflecting on the language we use to describe who we are. One word in particular: progressive. We identify as a PreK–8 progressive school, and yet, in today’s cultural context, it’s worth asking what that word truly conveys, and whether it clearly communicates the educational experience we work so intentionally to provide.