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Inside a bright second-grade classroom, morning sunlight hits Tinker Bell’s tidy desk; she sits straight in her chair, calm smile, pencils perfectly aligned beside a neat notebook, posters and cubbies faintly visible behind her.
My name is Tinker Bell. I am in second grade. I like things to feel just right. When my desk is neat and my pencils are straight, my brain feels calm and safe. This is how my brain works, and it is okay. Sometimes my brain gets stuck. I may erase my letters again and again. I may choose a pencil by looking at every eraser. My brain feels very busy even when my hands are not working yet.
In the same classroom under warm afternoon light, Tinker Bell grips her pencil at her desk, anxious eyes on an unfinished story page. Beside her, her teacher, a woman with kind eyes and a blue cardigan, kneels gently, reassuring smile.
Today I am writing a story about a butterfly. I work on it for a long time. My teacher says, "Five more minutes, Tinker Bell." But stopping feels very hard. When my teacher says it is time to go to music class, my tummy feels tight. "My story is not perfect yet," I say. My hands hold my pencil. My teacher kneels down. "Your story is beautiful. We can save it for later," she says gently.
At the sunlit classroom doorway, Tinker Bell exhales, sets her pencil down, and gives her paper to her teacher, a woman with kind eyes and a blue cardigan, who beams proudly. Behind them, classmates wait in a line with backpacks.
I take one deep breath like my mom taught me. In through my nose, out through my mouth. I tell myself, "It is okay to stop. I can come back later." I put my pencil down slowly. I give my paper to my teacher. She smiles at me. "You did it, Tinker Bell!" My classmates are lining up. I walk to the line and keep my body calm. My work does not have to be perfect to move on.
In the softly lit classroom at day’s end, Tinker Bell, backpack on, high-fives her teacher, a woman with kind eyes and a blue cardigan, beside cubbies and packed desks. She smiles with relief while the teacher’s encouraging grin matches hers.
At the end of the day, it is time to pack up and go home. I feel a little worried. But I remember what to do. I put my things in my backpack the best I can. "Home time is safe. School will be here tomorrow," I whisper. Sometimes I still feel sad or stuck. Those feelings will pass. My teacher gives me a high five. "You practiced moving on today!" Every time I practice, my brain gets stronger. I am safe. I am learning. I can move on.