From the Wellness Department, School of Wellness, Education, Behavioral and Social Sciences, Community College of Baltimore County, Baltimore, Maryland.
Danielle M. Holland, MEd
dholland@ccbcmd.edu
I often have the lyrics of the song “Once in a Lifetime” by the Talking Heads (1980) running through my head like an earworm. They surface at different times in different ways, but one line has stayed with me: “And you may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?” This question has followed me through nearly every stage of my life.
I was born in Livingston, New Jersey and raised in a small 1-square mile town on the Jersey Shore named Point Pleasant Beach, affectionately referred to as “the Beach.” I can still smell a mixture of fish and salt water and hear the humming of the wires from the salty air. We all went to the beach, worked on the boardwalk, and played until the streetlights came on. It was the kind of small-town living that I feel truly lucky to have experienced. I did not realize, however, that I was extremely privileged. It sounds naïve, but I was not considered rich by any means. We ate hot dogs and Lender’s frozen bagels for dinner. My packed lunch was a chicken loaf sandwich. I wore hand-me-downs from all different family members. We never went on vacation except for one trip to Disneyworld when I was in 1st grade, only because my grandparents had a condo. I would never have considered myself privileged, but I had a community. I had bottomless job opportunities. I could walk to the beach. I had a highly rated school system. I was privileged.
Point Pleasant Beach has a K-8 grammar school named Antrim Elementary. This is the school where I won my first award – Most Diligent – at my 8th grade graduation. I did not know what the word diligent meant and I was too embarrassed to ask. It didn’t seem to matter. Just winning the award itself seemed to please everyone. That is when I learned an important, subliminal lesson; winning an award was important. I also learned the meaning of diligence.
Point Pleasant Beach High School had a total of 364 students when I attended. High school was easy for me. I wasn’t great at math or science, but I really enjoyed reading and writing and I was known for my success in academics and athletics. The truth is, I do not remember much from the successes, but I do remember the struggles. I remember Mr. K telling me in front of the entire chemistry class that I would do better on my tests if I chose the answer opposite to the one I think is correct. I remember Mrs. C accusing me of having an eating disorder because I didn’t want to eat McDonald’s during 1st period English. (Yes, she would send one of the students out to get McDonald’s.) I remember Mr. A, my history teacher, sent me to the guidance counselor for suspicion of drug use because he saw the bruises on my arms from having blood drawn. (That same year, I had infectious mononucleosis (mono) and missed more than 2 months of school, hence, the blood draws.) I also won awards. I won academic awards and athletic awards and student athlete awards. I had pictures in the newspapers for being All State and All County. I won the awards, but I still didn’t feel like a winner. Winning awards was expected. Getting good grades was expected. I did what I was expected to do.
Going to college was the expected next step after high school. My mother was a 1st-generation college graduate from Montclair State University in New Jersey and my father graduated from Washington College in Chestertown, MD. There was no discussion of anything other than this path. I wanted to go to a small liberal arts school no more than 3 hours away and finally decided on Goucher College in Towson, MD. Goucher, as small as it was, seemed huge to me. It was only 1,000 students and the graduating class before I entered was the last all female class. Graduates had laid black roses on a table as they walked across the commencement stage.
I learned new things that excited me at Goucher, but one could say I also had unexpected challenges that no one would expect. I was put into quarantine my freshman year because they thought my dorm had an outbreak of the mumps. I believe it really was strep throat. My sophomore year I was stalked by another student. The police said they couldn’t do anything because we were “living together.” I was told by the dean I had to stay 50 yards away from him. My junior year I was put into a situation with one of coaches. I was the manager, he was the coach, and my long-term boyfriend was a player. We didn’t have the language or tools to address those situations in the 1990s. We endured them. Survived them. Pretended they didn’t happen. I endured.
I graduated with a bachelor's degree in education. I stayed in Maryland after I graduated because I honestly did not think I could find a job in New Jersey. In 1993, there were no jobs in education. I landed my first teaching experience at the FutureKids Computer Learning Center. I lugged computers to and from the center to different schools for after school programs. Picture a dolly with a blue Rubbermaid container holding the hard drive tower, keyboard, and mouse with the square, bulky monitor (remember the 90s!) held in place on top with a bungee cord. It was not my wheelhouse, but it was a teaching job. I sent and received my first email here. I cannot express how cool it was to receive email from someone in a different state. It was a fun experience until it wasn’t. I was being taken advantage of and had to fight for owed pay. To be fair, the owners were in personal crisis, and I took the brunt of the hit, but I walked away with everything I was owed. This is when I learned I needed to speak up for myself. Fight for myself.
I was offered a kindergarten position at one of the schools I served with FutureKids. That school was the Young School. I loved being a kindergarten teacher. The students at this age are fun, loving, eager to learn and hang on your every word. I taught reading, writing, math, and science in learning centers along with painting, crafts, exploration with a water table, dress-up, a pretend kitchen and more. This was when whole language was the rage, meaning phonics were not explicitly taught. I taught reading through world experiences. We took walks and read street signs. We grew plants from seeds and practiced labeling diagrams and images. We hatched chickens from eggs and learned how to journal daily changes. I learned behavior management quickly because I was taking these 12 students weekly to the public library and a senior center, as well as class trips to farms and museums.
I started Loyola College’s master’s program in education as a reading specialist (now Loyola University Maryland) and loved it from the first class all the way through the practicum. I chose Loyola for 3 reasons: no GRE, no thesis, and a satellite campus close to The Young School in Columbia, MD. It also offered a payment plan with zero interest. It was like paying a car payment each month and I could afford it. Learning how to teach reading, now termed literacy, was one of the best experiences of my life. I was good at it. I learned how to teach phonics, grammar, comprehension, lower and higher-level questioning, and sight words. I wrote curriculum. I learned how to give standardized assessments, IQ assessments, reading vocabulary assessments, and reading comprehension assessments. I felt powerful. I could walk into a room, assess a child, create a plan and successfully teach a child to read. I found my career. I also found what it feels like to be supported by a professor. Donald Hofler was that professor.
Dr. Hofler was a strict, old-school professor who taught through storytelling, experience and examples, and public speaking. He taught me to be proud of being knowledgeable. Through his support, I graduated from Loyola College. Donald Hofler also taught me about mental health. I say this because he was my mentor. I could share my struggles. He guided me, taught me, and showed me how to speak properly. He was also a murderer. Years later, he plead guilty to third degree murder of both his ex-wife and her teenage son. It stopped me. How was it possible my favorite person in education killed his ex-wife and stepson? It took me years of these little experiences to know with confidence that most everyone is dealing with their own demons. Whether it be personal struggles, mental health, living environment, financial concerns, or any of the other topics that related to mental health, we must focus on helping others so that they can succeed. I learned empathy. He committed suicide while in prison.
During this same time, I accepted a position as a 1st-grade teacher at [then named] Federal Hill Elementary School in Baltimore City. This teaching position gave me the same feeling as the Incredible Hulk Coaster (Universal’s Island of Adventure in Orlando, FL). On most coasters, you slowly climb up a hill with growing anticipation for an inevitable drop where your stomach doesn’t know which direction to feel the most angst. Not the Incredible Hulk Coaster. This coaster shoots you out like a pin ball machine. You do not drop; you get projected. I got projected into teaching. While safer than most schools in the city, my school still had mostly lower income families. I was placed in an open space classroom for 1st graders who had a long-term substitute since August and it was now January.
Not one person showed me how to do the job. I learned from veteran teachers and the custodian. Why the custodian? Mr. Randy’s son was in my class, and he was the proudest dad who only wanted his son to succeed. He worked at this school so his son could go there. This led to my unconventional friendship with Mr. Randy, a level of mutual respect. See, during my time in Baltimore City, we had to supply our own materials. For example, there was a copier, but we had to bring our own paper. The classroom didn’t have textbooks. They also didn’t have paper, pencils, crayons, notebooks, or any other item needed for teaching. This one relationship afforded me paper, journals and pencils, along with some incredibly old textbooks. Mr. Randy brought them to my classroom. In return, I taught his son the best I could at that time. That is all Mr. Randy wanted from me. I learned an unexpected lesson here; by simply treating someone the way I would want to be treated, and by giving a person a few minutes for a chat, I found a like-minded person. I found someone with a common goal. I learned how to barter as well. I was also very lucky to have the custodian’s son in my room.
I moved on beyond Federal Hill Elementary as I earned my graduate degree. I was a reading specialist for Harford County Public School System and Baltimore County School System. Then, in 2001, I was introduced very casually to a person in the Teacher Education Program at the Community College of Baltimore County (CCBC) and before I knew it, I applied and was an adjunct in the Teacher Education Department. This was a great opportunity for me because I was on leave from BCPS from having my first child. I did this from 2002-2006 after having a second child in 2003 and resigning from BCPS. Not soon after, the opportunity unveiled: I was asked to apply for a new position within the department to teach the reading courses, which were now mandated by Maryland State Department of Education. A full-time position teaching reading courses at CCBC. It was too good to not apply, so I did. I was welcomed as a full-time faculty member in August of 2006.
My life then became full of responsibilities as I progressed each year at CCBC. I went from full-time faculty member to the coordinator at Teacher Education on the Catonsville Campus, to coordinator and faculty member on the Dundalk Campus, back to general faculty member once I reached Essex Campus, until several years later when I was asked to be the coordinator again. I was mentored by the one and only Karen Roe, who tried to teach me so much outside the classroom. I failed to learn many of those lessons and there were challenges. The ones I did learn were powerful. I ended up working in collaboration with some of the best faculty members. We found a groove, a rhythm, a desire to do more things and to do things better. The lesson was simple – find your people. I did, and it made each day fun. Then, my life stopped.
July 26, 2015, my son, 11 years old at the time, was diagnosed with leukemia. This is when I learned that work does not trump family. I ended up living at Johns Hopkins Hospital on and off from July to September, until he was admitted for a 9-month run. I tried to do online teaching, but there came a point when his outlook was the worst and I needed to focus 100% on him. I had to ask for help. Luckily, my co-workers stepped up and supported me so I could then go on leave to be with him. This is when my honorary nursing degree training began. I learned how to flush ports, administer chemotherapy, feed him using nasal tube at first, and then a gastric tube. I distributed the medications. I learned about pain management and how to ween someone off opioids. I floundered in supporting others’ mental health while trying to manage my own. I got an honorary degree in cancer. I learned how it feels to be alone while still having support.
When I returned to CCBC, I was not the same person. And I found myself asking, “Well, how do I work this?”. I was quite literally broken. I moved to the Wellness Department to support the health and physical education programs and write curriculum – the 2 things I knew I can do well. I was quiet. I worked behind the scenes. I didn’t want my name to be spoken out loud. I didn’t want to be the head of anything. I needed to become confident again. It didn’t happen quickly. The members of this department never gave up on me. They waited patiently for me to crawl out from the office to begin to use my voice again.
It took several years, but I finally felt like I belonged. I started to collaborate, create, and find support and comfort within my department. I built online courses. I was asked to be the coordinator of the new Public Health Program. Oddly enough, it was the perfect fit and I was able to combine my academic education with my educational experiences. Then, the email showed up in my inbox. I won an award. The state of confusion hung in the air and my first thought was that the email was a misfire. I asked Connie Colclough, the chair of the Wellness Department, what it meant. It meant I was nominated for and won the League of Innovation’s Excellence Award winner. My first thought was “How did I get here?”.
I was surprised and humbled at the same time. I was also proud. Which brings me to the present, still reflecting on how I got here. Over time, I’ve realized that the question itself matters less than what I’ve learned along the way.
Every experience—both the highs and the lows—has contributed to who I am today. The challenges taught me resilience, self-awareness, and the importance of advocating for myself, while the successes reminded me of my capabilities, even when I struggled to see them. Just as meaningful were the people who supported me along the way—mentors, colleagues, family, and even unexpected allies—who helped guide me when I felt uncertain or overwhelmed. I have come to understand that growth is not linear, and that both setbacks and achievements are necessary parts of the process.
Most importantly, I have learned to ask for help (still in progress!), to extend empathy to others, and to recognize that we are all navigating our own complexities; students included. And sometimes, even now, I still catch myself asking that familiar question—"How did I get here?”—only to realize that the answer is still unfolding.
“You may ask yourself, 'Am I right? Am I wrong?' / And you may say to yourself, 'My God! What have I done?'”