This round looks a little different. Instead of five straight days, it is one day a week for four weeks. A different rhythm, a different medication, and as it turns out, a different set of experiences.

About three hours into a seven-hour session last week, my body started some classic allergy symptoms. I mentioned the itchy eyes and tingly lips, and they paused the infusion for about thirty minutes, gave me a high dose of Benadryl, then restarted at a slower pace for the rest of the day. I walked out feeling a little tired, but mostly okay.

Two hours later, I was back at the hospital. This time in the ER, working to get a fever under control. Five hours, an IV antibiotic, another few rounds of blood tests, and a chest X-ray later, I made it home and finally into bed. Not exactly how I had drawn it up.

What followed was a steady climb back. Each day a little better than the one before. By the weekend, I felt like myself again. Energy back. Spirits up. Working through that quiet, one day at a time progress.

This Monday, I went in ready for round two of that experience. Bracing a bit. Expecting a little more of the same.

Instead, it was a delightfully boring day.

No real side effects. Just a little fatigue and a lot of time to sit, think, and be grateful for a smooth one. I also got an update on my white blood cell count, and things are moving in the right direction. Always good news.

I missed one of my favorite nights of the year at Del Oro on Monday, as we welcomed 8th graders and their parents to campus to give them a taste of a Del Oro Rally and introduce them to all the clubs and sports available to them. I got regular updates all night from both staff and 8th-grade parents that made my heart warm. I can hardly wait to be back!

I will meet with my oncologist on Friday and plan to ask about returning to work right after my final infusion on the 18th. That date has been circled for a while now. It would be pretty special to be back for those last two weeks of the school year.

Here’s hoping.

Last week I made the daily drive into downtown Sacramento, five straight mornings, three hours at a time. You settle into a rhythm pretty quickly. Check in, get set up, sit, read, think, repeat. I had three different nurses over the week, and each of them brought a calm, steady kindness to the experience. They were the kind of people who made something hard feel just a little more manageable.

There was also this quiet, humbling reality of the infusion center. You look around and realize that many people there are walking through much heavier versions of this fight. I found myself holding two things at once. A real awareness of how hard it is for others, and a deep gratitude that my side effects have been minimal and that the outlook here is positive. Both can be true, and both were present every morning.

The first three days felt surprisingly normal. No real side effects to speak of. Then day four showed up and introduced a different kind of tired. Not the kind that a nap fixes. Not the kind that disappears after a good night of sleep. It is the kind where your legs feel heavy for no reason, where standing for a bit leaves you a little out of breath, where your body just feels like it is working harder than it should. That feeling built over the next few days, carried into Easter Sunday, and then, slowly, started to ease. Each day since has been a step in the right direction.

I checked in with my nurse liaison earlier this week to let her know how I was feeling, and she gave me the green light to do whatever my body feels up for, with one exception. Stay away from people for now. So I have been walking, mixing in some light exercise, paying attention to how things feel. If things keep trending this way, I may test out a short run next week. I miss that more than I expected.

One update on what is ahead. I had originally been told that the next round would not begin until May 4, but my upcoming sessions have now been scheduled to start earlier, with weekly infusions beginning on April 27. If all goes well, that timeline puts a return to school within reach for the last week or two of the school year. I can hardly wait!

Through all of this, the messages, the texts, the check-ins, they continue to mean more than I can probably put into words. The picture with this post is a friend’s edit of one of my infusion photos, letting me know I was doing spring break all wrong. It is messages like this, from friends like these, that I feel especially grateful for.

The Del Oro English department put together a chemo care package that feels exactly like them. Thoughtful, a little creative, and full of heart. Snacks, a puzzle book, and a novel called This Is Happiness, wrapped in an old school homemade book cover that made me smile right away. I am about two-thirds of the way through it, and I am all in. It follows a 17-year-old Irish boy making sense of love, loss, friendship, and family, and it has me thinking a lot about how we all move through our own stories.

Here’s the line from the book I’m holding onto most this week:

“Story was the stuff of life, and to realise you were inside one allowed you to sometimes surrender to the plot, to bear a little easier the griefs and sufferings and to enjoy more fully the twists that came along the way.”

That feels grounding to me.

From what I have been told, tomorrow is when the fatigue may start to show up, and it will likely build into next week.

I think I’m ready.

But then something unexpected and, honestly, kind of wonderful happened.

I walked into the infusion center and met the nurse who would be placing the PICC. She was fantastic. Calm, clear, and the kind of person who makes you feel like you are in good hands before anything even starts. She walked me through the entire process, showed me how I would clean and manage everything, and had me sign the consent forms.

Then she paused.

She looked at my arms.
Then at my chart.
Then back at my arms.

After a minute, she said, “Let’s get Christine in here.”

Christine has been my point person through this whole process. She came in, took a look, and then did something I did not expect at all. She told me I had a decision to make.

Up until that moment, I didn’t think there was one. The doctor said PICC line, so in my mind, that was the plan.

Christine walked me through it.

On one side: fewer needle sticks, easy access if I needed anything like a transfusion.
On the other: weekly visits for dressing changes, managing the line, keeping it dry in the shower, and living with hardware hanging out of my arm for the next couple of months.

Then she framed it in a way that stuck with me. Given my chemo schedule, I would be looking at about nine needle sticks total.

Nine.

And I had to decide if avoiding those nine pokes was worth everything that comes with the PICC.

I really don’t like needles. Not even a little bit.

But I walked out without the PICC.

Chemo still starts Monday. That part hasn’t changed. There’s definitely some anxiety there, but also a little bit of something else. Maybe it’s relief. Maybe it’s readiness. Probably both.

And more than anything, I’m feeling grateful.

The amount of support from friends, family, and the Del Oro community has been overwhelming in the best possible way. There is no way to capture all of it, but one moment from this week keeps sticking with me.

A former colleague dropped off a basket of goodies with a sticker that read, “Wicked Coffee, Mr. Jim.”

It’s a callback to an old Volkswagen commercial we used to watch on the hard days. The kind of thing that made us laugh when we probably needed it most.

It’s funny how something small like that can carry so much history, so much connection.

And right now, those little moments are everything.

I have been feeling completely healthy, which is a strange thing to say given everything going on, but I will take it. Right now, it feels a lot like waiting. Waiting for appointments, waiting for next steps, waiting to get started.

I did get a call from Kaiser last night, which helped put some things on the calendar and made things feel a bit more real. On Wednesday, I will go in to have a PICC line put in. I have heard it can be a little uncomfortable and take some getting used to, but it sounds a whole lot better than getting poked over and over again for blood draws.

Then the following week, starting Monday the 30th, I will begin chemo. I will go in each morning for a few hours for five straight days. The encouraging news is that they expect I will be able to drive myself, I should not lose my hair, and as long as I stay on top of the meds, the nausea should be pretty manageable.

So for now, I am just doing my best to stay healthy and enjoy feeling good.

In other news, while I was not able to be at Wednesday’s districtwide staff development day in person, I did not want to miss the chance to connect with our staff. I recorded a quick welcome video for the team at Del Oro.

Fair warning, my dogs decided they also wanted to be part of the message, and made a few guest appearances along the way.

Enjoy.

He walked us through the results of my bone marrow biopsy.

Apparently, healthy bone marrow for someone my age should be about half fat and half blood-making cells. Mine is currently about 80 percent cancer. As medical reviews go, that one landed somewhere in the “not ideal” category.

But the plan forward was clear, and that helped.

The next steps are fairly straightforward. On Sunday, I’ll get a CT scan of my spleen so they can measure its size and make sure it shrinks appropriately during treatment. On Monday, I have a chemo class. I guess this is where I learn all about the process?? After that, they’ll put in a port to make it easier to access my veins during treatment.

Then we begin.

The first round of chemo will be five days in a row. Dr. Adada said I likely won’t lose my hair, which I appreciate. He did say I’ll probably feel very tired. I asked about nausea, and he said they’ll have me on medications that should keep that mostly under control.

Between now and then, the assignment is simple. Do not get sick.

So I’m washing my hands like a madman and trying to see people outside whenever possible. If you see me waving from a suspiciously safe distance, that’s why.

After the initial five days of chemo, we’ll take a few weeks off to let my numbers recover. Then there will be a different type of chemo once a week for four weeks. The hope is that this combination will knock the cancer down hard enough that it doesn’t come back for decades.

Decades sounded like a pretty good word to hear today.

For now, while I’m still feeling well, I’m able to get some work done from home. I did make one thing very clear to Dr. Adada. My goal is to be back at work in time to speak at graduation.

Especially since Bracken is graduating this year.

A couple of weeks ago, I thought I had the flu. The kind that knocks you down for a few days and then slowly loosens its grip. Except this one didn’t. My head pounded constantly. My fever spiked to 103 and above. I wasn’t eating. I wasn’t sleeping. We adjusted pain medication twice and nothing touched it.

On March 1st, at 6AM, I woke Morgan up and told her I thought it was time to go to the ER.

Most of that Sunday was spent on a gurney in a hallway. IV bags were changed. Blood was drawn. More blood was drawn. A chest x-ray. A CT scan. An MRI. They even had to cut off my wedding ring so I could go into the MRI machine. I’ve worn that ring for almost 25 years. That part felt symbolic in a way I wasn’t ready for.

The chest x-ray showed pneumonia. But the bigger concern was my white blood cell count. It was 0.5 in the afternoon. By evening, it had dropped to 0.2. That is far below the safe range and meant my body was not equipped to fight infection.

They admitted me and moved me into an isolated room to protect me from anything else my immune system couldn’t handle.

On March 2nd, after more labs and consultation with specialists, I was diagnosed with Hairy Cell Leukemia. It is a rare form of blood cancer that impacts the bone marrow and white blood cell production. A bone marrow biopsy the following day confirmed the diagnosis.

The biopsy itself is an experience. They numb you up, but you can still hear the drill and feel the pressure in the small of your back. Ugh.

On March 3rd, the meeting with the oncologist was surreal. When someone says the word “cancer,” your mind races in ten directions at once. But he also said something else that I am holding onto tightly: this particular cancer, while rare, responds very well to treatment. The prognosis is very positive. His words were clear. There is a very good chance I will live a long, full life.

We will let my body finish fighting pneumonia, and then we will begin chemotherapy.

On March 4th, I came home. There are still headaches. Still coughing. My appetite is slowly returning. Each day has been slightly better than the one before it.

Morgan and my sister have been administering a few necessary injections in my stomach. Marriage vows did not specifically mention this clause, but here we are.

On March 7th, I was feeling well enough to head to Del Oro and watch my 12-year-old play soccer. I’m one of the assistant coaches on the team, and the boys all wore a painted Z on their faces. At the end of the game, they thanked the other team and the refs, then came to the corner where I was sitting and gave me air fist bumps from about 20 feet away. I was feeling the love.

What has overwhelmed me most is the kindness. The texts. The emails. The prayers. The jokes. The stories. The quiet encouragement. I feel deeply loved by my family, by friends near and far, and by my Del Oro and Loomis community

There will likely be a rough stretch ahead with chemo. I am not naive about that. But I am hopeful. The outlook is strong. The doctors are confident. And I am grateful.

I will know more after my appointment on Thursday and will continue to share updates as appropriate.

For now, thank you.

Truly.

That perspective could shift many things.

In high schools, we often deal with behavior after the fact. A missed assignment. A phone out in class. A disrespectful comment. And it is easy to label those moments as laziness, defiance, or disrespect. But Good Inside asks us to look deeper. What is underneath the behavior? What need is going unmet? What skill still needs to be learned?

Similar to the message of The Teenage Brain, we’re reminded that teenagers are not finished products. Their brains are still developing. Their identities are still forming. They are trying to belong, to be seen, to figure out who they are… all while balancing academic pressure, social dynamics, and everything else life throws at them. If we approach them with the assumption that they are good inside, even when their behavior is frustrating, we are more likely to respond with clarity and compassion rather than shame or control.

Good Inside explores the concepts of “seeing the good, setting the boundary, and staying connected.” That translates well to education. We can believe in our students’ worth, hold high expectations, and maintain a positive relationship simultaneously.

I hope this can inform how we build connections with students in the coming year. There’s also some good parenting messages in there. More on that later.

This summer, as I started thinking about our professional development plan for the coming year, I picked the book back up. A decade later, it still holds up. If anything, it feels more relevant now than it did then.

Pink’s central idea is clear. The traditional carrot-and-stick model of motivation often fails, especially for work (like the education of high school students) that involves creativity, collaboration, and complex problem-solving. Real motivation comes from three things: autonomy, mastery, and purpose.

Autonomy is the desire to have control over our work.
Mastery is the drive to get better at something that matters.
Purpose is the sense that we are contributing to something larger than ourselves.

When I think about professional learning this year, those three ideas keep coming to mind. Teachers do not need more top-down directives. They need space to grow, room to contribute, and support that honors their time and expertise. That does not mean there is no structure. It means the structure is built to support curiosity, reflection, and shared ownership.

We are planning opportunities for collaboration, coaching, and deeper learning around the things that matter most. Not more for the sake of more, but more of what helps people feel energized, connected, and capable.

Motivation is not something we hand out; it is something we cultivate.

And that is what I hope we can do this year, together.

Jensen is a neuroscientist and the mother of two teenage boys. Her book combines the science of adolescent brain development with the lived experience of navigating mood swings, risky decisions, and selective hearing. Her main point is both reassuring and challenging: teenagers are not mini adults. Their brains are still very much under construction, with the frontal lobe (responsible for planning, decision-making, and impulse control) not fully developed until the mid-twenties.

Teenagers are capable of incredible things: creativity, idealism, deep friendships, and rapid learning. But they are also more prone to take risks, struggle with impulse control (I call this “making bonehead decisions”), and misread social cues. Not because they’re lazy or reckless, but because their brains are literally still wiring themselves together.

This book reminded me that when a student forgets their homework three days in a row or makes a poor decision with friends, it’s not always defiance. Sometimes it’s biology. That doesn’t mean we let everything slide. But it does mean we lead with understanding.

Jensen also emphasizes how much the teenage brain is shaped by experience. Habits formed now — sleep routines, screen time, social interactions, substance use — have a lasting impact. Which means that even when it feels like they’re tuning us out, they’re still learning from what we model and what we reinforce.

One of the best things we can do for teenagers is to help them establish structure in the areas of their lives that are still developing. Clear expectations. Boundaries with tech. Space to talk without being judged. And a steady adult presence that says, “I understand that you are still developing… and I’m here for you.”

This year, I’m planning to share a few quick takeaways from The Teenage Brain — and also from The Anxious Generation by Jonathan Haidt — in my weekly emails to parents throughout the fall. I will try to include a short insight and a couple of practical action steps or discussion prompts. My goal is to help us support our teens through a season of growth.