Ten Years Later: What We See When We Look Back
Nourish turns 10 this summer. And to chronicle the last decade of this school…well, that deserves an entire book. A summation simply cannot suffice all that is in our hearts. We are trying to find words that can come close to depicting the complexity of emotions we carry.
Perhaps the profound grief makes it hazy for us: 10 years of Nourish means nearing 10 years without mom, dad, and Whit, 10 years of caring for such a delicate vision, 10 years of trying to live up to a legacy, knowing that no matter how hard we work, it may not feel like enough because they aren’t here to witness and build alongside us. So we’ve sat and stared at a blank page for months, we’ve ideated over how to mark this moment in time; wondering what it is we expect from ourselves to commemorate this ten years. We suppose we expect to feel some sort of pride — some sort of hindsight where we can integrate all that has transpired: good and bad, right and wrong, the failures and the progress. We suppose we expect to look back and see that there was something beautiful here but, with honesty, we look back and see grief.
Barb and Rob worked tirelessly to open Nourish. We were reading some of the emails and Facebook posts from Miss Barb to prepare for this day and they are filled with such enthusiasm, such anticipation. Sprinkled in among the posts about loving her grandsons, her kids and Rob, were posts about the progress of Nourish coming to life. Open houses, her deep intention for fostering a love of learning, enrollment announcements, how critical the first 5 years of life are, an overall cheerleader for those that were lucky enough to be called hers. Through Nourish, many more children and teachers came to be known as “hers” – hers to love and care for, hers to help build their sense of self and their belonging in the community. They had the idea, which they repeated often, “if you build it, they will come,” but we must confess that Barb was also filled with doubt that weighed heavy on her.
Despite that doubt, Barb’s vision – to be more than a daycare, to be a place full of compassion and tenderness, to be a place where little hearts feel at home enough to be curious, to be a place where teachers feel empowered and creative, to be a place where love emanates into the community at large – continues to beat through these halls.
There are children who have graduated from Nourish and are now nearly grown. There are families who entrusted us with one child and then returned with another. There are teachers who found their calling here. There are friendships that began on our playground and continue years later. There are thousands of ordinary moments that no one documented: tears comforted, books read, scraped knees kissed, prayers spoken, questions answered, discoveries made.
Perhaps this is where we struggle. Because the evidence of what Nourish has become does not live inside our memory of these ten years. It lives inside the lives of the people who have passed through it. While we remember the struggles, children remember the mud kitchen. While we remember the sleepless nights, families remember being welcomed. While we remember the moments we fell short, a child remembers a teacher who knelt beside them when they were scared.
Maybe that is the nature of this work. The people carrying the vision and the legacy see every crack in the foundation. The people who are nurtured by it experience the shelter.
And so, while we cannot honestly say we look back and see ten years of success, we can say this: Nourish is still here. After loss. After uncertainty. After a pandemic. After every season that felt impossible. Nourish is still here, working tirelessly to continue to foster her vision.
Children are still laughing in these classrooms. Teachers are still showing up for them. Families are still finding their way through our doors. And perhaps that, in itself, is something beautiful.
We thank all of you in whatever role you have played in making this milestone possible.
With love,
Miken and Alex