Hey friend,
Last week, I shared some thoughts around the "S-Curve" of innovation. It was a thought piece on the trajectory of our profession and where we would be in fifteen years. I ended the blog post with this:
While the activity may be approaching the top of the S–Curve, that doesn't mean you are. You may be taking over a program at the bottom of the curve or in the middle of explosive growth. You may achieve incredible things with your marching band (top of the curve) while starting a jazz program from scratch (bottom of the curve). So different parts of your program and the students participating might be in various places on the curve.
If you zoom out a bit, there's another S-Curve quietly playing out behind every rehearsal, sectional, and festival performance: your career as a music educator.
It would be hard to deny that I am at the top of the curve, not because I have mastered any particular skills or techniques, but because I am thirty-four years into this consonant curve, and I would be foolish to think I have another thirty-five left in me. I have many lessons to learn and students to teach, but as the S-Curve teaches us, the growth trajectory is elongated, and the lessons learned, while important, produce less yield than they would have three decades ago.
No one tells you this in college, but your first few years of teaching are mostly powered by caffeine, survival instinct, and enthusiasm. You don't know what you don't know. The climb begins immediately every day, and rehearsals are filled with opportunities to fail, learn, and grow. You find your rhythm. You wish you had paid more attention in your methods class as you attempt to remember how to re-string a French horn or replace a bridge on a violin.
But you survive. A freshman calls you their favorite teacher, and suddenly, all of the work you did to get your degree and get a job is affirmed. You start to build. Programs grow. Students return year after year, and you develop a quiet confidence about who they are and your role in their lives.
In years five through 10, you start to soar. Things that were once difficult, if not unthinkable, are now within your grasp and seem attainable. You build traditions. You see the fruits of your labor in the eyes of students who used to squeak out "Hot Cross Buns" and are now auditioning for all-region ensembles or teaching their own sectionals. You teach siblings. You see your first student become a music major. You begin to realize, this isn't just a job—it's legacy work.
Then, just as you're cruising up the S-Curve, real life taps you on the shoulder. Budget cuts. Burnout. Administrative changes. A global pandemic. (Too soon?) Suddenly, the upward momentum feels fragile. Your best-laid plans get rerouted by things beyond your control. This is the part of the curve no brochure warns you about—the curve within the curve. The exhaustion is real, as is the questioning whether this truly is meant to be your life's work.
But just like in your early years, something small keeps you going. A handwritten thank-you card. A senior who says you made them feel seen. A quiet kid who finally sings out. These moments remind you that while the curve may not always rise as fast as you'd like, you are moving. You are making an impact. You are changing lives.
The S-Curve teaches us that what they don't tell you about this profession: growth is rarely linear, but always meaningful. Some years, your ensembles win everything. Other years, you feel like you're teaching in a wind tunnel filled with angry parents and administrators who "just don't get it!"
Both kinds of years matter. Both are building something. Both are sacred. Both are a part of your journey.
Remember, as you move through your S-Curve, your students are riding their S-Curves too. You get to be there at the bottom—when they can't clap in time—and you're there at the top—when they lead their own rehearsals. You see the whole arc. You don't just teach music; you witness transformation.
As you grow, so does your empathy. You understand that your administrators are on their own S-curves. So are your colleagues, your boosters, even your own family. Suddenly, the dip in your day isn't a failure—it's just part of the process. The S-Curve becomes less of a performance chart and more of a life companion.
Which brings us to this week; it's graduation season. Across the country, students are putting on their caps and gowns and walking across stages. Many will shake your hand on their way to a diploma, not realizing they're standing on top of their musical S-Curve. They've made it—made region band, led warm-ups, performed their final concert. It feels like an ending.
But here's the truth: it's not an ending. It's the start of a brand-new S-Curve. One called adulthood. One called life.
While they may be at the end of their musical journey, they're standing at the very bottom of something much bigger—and they are about to ascend. Not just because of their GPA or test scores, but because of you.
You were there for them as they ascended. You taught, guided, and inspired them to continue climbing. You gave them discipline, confidence, resilience, and joy. Through your development, you modeled what growth looks like, how to lead with grace, and how to keep going even when the piece falls apart at measure 42. You didn't just teach them to play music—you taught them how to be.
So wherever you are on your S-Curve—as a brand-new teacher fighting the chaos or a seasoned veteran mentoring the next generation—know this: you are the reason that curve bends upward. As your students walk across that stage, diploma in hand, know that while your time with them may be ending, your impact is just beginning.
Your legacy is not what you taught them, but that YOU taught them.
Have a great week.