I Kept Trying to Find My Niche. I Should Have Been Looking for My Pattern.

I have purchased an embarrassing number of domain names.

This feels important to disclose before I give anyone advice about finding their purpose.

I have started blogs.

Built websites.

Created teaching projects.

Abandoned teaching projects.

Researched ideas extensively, made elaborate plans, created three organizational systems for the plan, and then somehow made the entire thing so complicated that I no longer wanted to do it.

I know this about myself.

I have a tendency to make things significantly more complicated than they need to be and then get bogged down in the details of the complicated system I personally created.

It's a gift.

At different points, I have been completely fascinated by accessible education, EdTech, AI, global education systems, teacher wellness, student reflection, journaling, executive functioning, self-advocacy, art, creative experiences, community building, and probably 17 other things I am forgetting.

Every so often, I would have the thought:

Okay. This is the thing.

I found it.

My niche.

My direction.

The beautifully organized little box where I would place all of my interests and finally become easy to explain.

Then I would have another idea.

I Was Very Good at Saying I Was “Just a Teacher”

For a long time, teacher was the easiest way to explain me.

Someone asks what you do.

I'm a teacher.

Easy.

People understand teacher.

I even caught myself saying I was “just a teacher.”

Which is ridiculous.

Teachers do approximately 400 jobs before lunch.

But “teacher” gave me a clear identity.

I had always wanted to teach. I studied education. I became a special education teacher. I built my life around education.

Then my life got bigger.

I left Indiana.

I became a travel teacher.

I lived in a campervan.

I studied global perspectives in education.

I moved to Los Angeles.

I became a mentor.

I started making journals.

I started painting again.

I began selling art at the beach.

I started creating experiences and bringing people together.

And suddenly the question “What do you do?” required a significantly longer answer.

Well.

I'm a teacher.

But I also make educator resources.

And journals.

And art.

And I create events.

And mentor people.

And build community.

And—

You can actually watch someone's eyes try to identify the appropriate follow-up question.

I felt silly explaining it.

Even now, I sometimes struggle to explain what Aligned with Adelaide is because I have spent so much of my life believing that legitimate work should be easy to categorize.

What is the niche?

Who is the audience?

What is the one thing?

There are people online with beautifully specific niches.

She teaches people how to make sourdough.

He explains personal finance.

This woman has apparently built an entire career around classroom labels.

Meanwhile, I'm over here like:

Would you like to discuss inclusive education, teacher burnout, executive functioning, global education systems, journaling, or come paint with me at the beach?

I understand why the branding has been difficult.

I Thought My Problem Was Focus

For a long time, I thought all of these interests meant I lacked direction.

Maybe I needed to commit.

Maybe I needed to pick the best idea.

Maybe I needed to stop getting distracted by the next thing that felt interesting.

I thought finding my purpose would feel like finally getting on the right track.

One direction.

Clear intentions.

A very organized five-year plan, presumably printed in a nice font.

But when I look back at my life, that is not actually how anything meaningful has happened for me.

I learn.

I create.

I try something.

I notice something.

I adapt.

Sometimes I keep going.

Sometimes I realize I have created a wildly complicated system that no human, including me, wants to use and I start over.

The process is not always efficient.

But there is a pattern.

I just couldn't see it when I was so busy trying to find my niche.

Everything I Make Usually Starts With Someone Who Feels Stuck

I think about the students I've taught.

The student who feels embarrassed to have an IEP and quietly wonders what that means about their future.

The student who doesn't know how to speak up in a meeting where six adults are discussing their life.

The student who wants to participate in a class discussion but genuinely does not know how to enter the conversation.

The student with completed assignments somewhere in their backpack who feels completely incapable because everyone keeps telling them they're disorganized.

I think about teachers.

The new educator who feels like they're living on an island.

The teacher who is struggling and has started to interpret their exhaustion as evidence that maybe they aren't meant for this.

The educator who has been passed over for opportunities despite being completely capable and has slowly stopped raising their hand.

I think about parents who love their children deeply and lie awake wondering whether their child will ever be independent.

I think about people who know something in their life does not feel right but cannot identify what needs to change.

I know that person too.

I made my journals because I needed them.

I was not sitting at a desk conducting market research on the guided-journaling industry.

I was struggling.

I needed to heal.

I needed better questions.

I needed somewhere to put the thoughts I could feel but couldn't quite organize.

So I started journaling.

I realized I kept coming back to connection.

Letting go.

Clarity.

Confidence.

Self-compassion.

I created the guidance I needed.

Then I realized someone else might need it too.

This is how I make almost everything.

Someone is stuck.

Sometimes that person is a student.

Sometimes it's a teacher.

Sometimes it's someone sitting at an art table telling me they aren't creative.

And sometimes it's me.

Especially, if I'm being fair, it is frequently me.

I Know What It Feels Like to Lose Sight of Your Own Possibility

I think this is the part I didn't understand about myself for a long time.

I recognize stuck people.

I recognize the person who feels unworthy.

The person who feels incapable.

The person who has been overlooked.

The person who is overwhelmed by how far they need to go and cannot identify the first step.

I recognize them because I can still see versions of myself there.

I can see the Indiana version of me.

The version who had become very good at doing what she was supposed to do.

The version who loved teaching but could not imagine how much bigger her life was going to become.

The version who had no idea she would live in a campervan.

Or move across the country.

Or study at Boston College.

Or sell paintings at the beach.

Or create journals.

Or mentor teachers.

Or build any of this.

That version of me wasn't incapable.

She just couldn't see all of her possibilities yet.

There is a difference.

And I think that is the difference I keep looking for in other people.

Maybe People Don't Always Need More Advice

We give people a lot of advice when they're stuck.

Try harder.

Be more organized.

Speak up.

Take care of yourself.

Find your passion.

Be confident.

Ask for help.

Pick a lane.

Okay.

How?

That is the question I care about.

A student doesn't know how to advocate for themselves.

What words could they use?

A student doesn't understand their IEP.

How do we help them enter the conversation?

A teacher feels completely overwhelmed.

Can we identify what is actually draining them before telling them to practice more self-care?

Someone feels disconnected from themselves.

What question might help them hear their own thoughts again?

Someone says they aren't creative.

What happens if we put some materials on a table and remove the expectation to be good?

I don't think I create answers for people.

I think I create ways back in.

A sentence starter.

A reflection question.

A checklist.

A journal page.

A table covered in art supplies.

Something that says:

Okay. You are here. We can start here.

I Kept Trying to Find My Niche When I Should Have Been Looking for My Pattern

Accessible education made sense to me because I care about barriers.

Journaling made sense because I care about helping people understand what they need.

Teacher wellness made sense because I have watched incredible educators become disconnected from their own capability.

Student self-advocacy made sense because I have watched students sit silently while adults discussed their futures.

Art made sense because I know what it feels like to forget that creation can exist simply for joy.

Community experiences made sense because gathering people and creating an environment where they feel safe enough to connect is its own kind of art.

These things are not as disconnected as I thought.

I notice moments when people feel disconnected from their own ability to move forward.

Then I want to create a way back in.

Apparently, I have been doing that for years.

Maybe You Don't Need to Pick a Lane

I don't know who decided we were supposed to identify one thing we are good at and continue moving in a straight line toward it forever.

That has certainly not been my experience.

I don't think alignment means moving in one direction.

I think it means noticing which things, people, and experiences match your energy.

What brings you back to yourself?

For me, it's journaling.

Movement.

Dancing.

Reading.

Baths.

Time with my cats.

Dates with my husband.

Travel.

Creating.

I feel most like Adelaide when my intentions and my actions actually match.

Not when my website has the perfect niche.

Not when my life is easy to explain.

Not when I have finally figured everything out.

When the things I say matter to me are visible in the way I am actually living.

That is alignment.

And maybe that's why I finally stopped trying to create another brand that only held one part of me.

Aligned with Adelaide is allowed to have educator resources beside journals.

Art beside research.

Creative experiences beside conversations about executive functioning.

Because I am allowed to be all of those things in the same room.

So are you.

Maybe you used to dance.

Maybe you used to write.

Maybe there is a box of paint under your bed.

Maybe you have an idea you keep dismissing because it doesn't make sense with the version of you everyone already understands.

Maybe you have too many interests.

Maybe you don't know your niche.

I am probably the last person who should tell you to buy another domain name.

But maybe instead of asking what you should do, you could ask:

What feels right to explore?

Then pay attention to what keeps bringing you back.

There might be a pattern.