Jena Combs

Jena Combs Music educator, passionate about equity, mentorship and creating sustainable music programs

07/27/2025

The first day is only days or weeks away.
You’re planning concerts, units, seating charts, syllabi—trying to make it all fit.

But don’t forget:
You’re not just planning a curriculum.
You’re building the place where some students will finally feel like they belong.

For some, your room will be the only place they feel safe.
The only place they feel capable.
The only place they feel seen.

Music isn’t extra. It’s where kids breathe.
Where they learn to listen, to lead, to trust.
Where they find out they matter.

So yes—prepare the lessons. Set the goals.
But also make space. Hold room.

Because for some students, this class will be the one that saves them.

07/22/2025

To the early career music teachers preparing to head back to school or start your first year teaching:

You don’t have to know everything.
You don’t have to have it all together.
You just have to show up—with consistency, compassion, and the willingness to learn alongside your students.

This work takes time. Programs grow slowly. Relationships take root gradually. And you are allowed to grow, too.

Trust your instincts. Ask for help. Rest when you can. You are already doing more than you know.

You’ve got this.

07/10/2025

Living with chronic illness means I don’t always have the same energy to give every day. Some days, I can run rehearsals and lead hands-on activities. Other days, I’m just trying to get through class without passing out or crashing after. That reality hasn’t made me a worse teacher—it is making me a more intentional one.

Chronic illness is teaching me to stop designing my classes around how much I can give, and instead focus on building systems that can flex and function even when I can’t run at 100%.

So I’ve started rethinking what “rigor” really means. Instead of “go harder,” I’m shifting toward go smarter. And that means:

• Creating multiple ways to engage with a concept—movement, discussion, listening, journaling, composing, tech-based work, peer teaching.

• Building in intentional breaks—for students and for me.

• Letting students choose how to show what they’ve learned. Maybe they write a reflection. Maybe they create a sound collage. Maybe they teach it to a classmate or make a short video.

• Creating lesson plans that don’t fall apart when I need to sit down, slow down, or step back.

•Removing the idea that “the best students” are the ones who push through pain, fatigue, or overwhelm. That’s not resilience. That’s how burnout takes root.

None of this is lowering the bar. It’s removing barriers.

What started as a way to survive teaching with chronic illness is becoming the most student-centered, flexible, human-centered approach I’ve ever used.

I’m not saying every day is going to be easy. But I’m no longer building my classes on the assumption that it has to be me doing everything, all the time, perfectly.

My students deserve better than that.
And so do I.

07/09/2025

Why band/choir/orchestra might actually be the best place for neurodivergent kids (and adults) to thrive:

I’ve spent years navigating life with ADHD—diagnosed later than I should’ve been, masking like a champ, and trying to make sense of why my brain doesn’t always do what it’s “supposed” to. And you know what? I never felt more capable than when I was in rehearsal.

Why?

Because ensemble settings accidentally check a bunch of boxes that support executive functioning—especially for people like me:

Predictable routines — Rehearsals follow a structure. Warm up, tune, work through rep, maybe laugh at an awkward rhythm, then run it again. That rhythm (pun intended) is calming. I knew what was coming. That meant I could prepare, focus, and even thrive.

Clear goals — You’re not just “working on music.” You’re prepping for a concert. A pep rally. A tour. A performance for your grandma who’s flying in and must hear your solo. That forward motion? It helps keep me on track more than any planner ever has.

Instant feedback — Played a wrong note? You’ll know. You’ll feel it. You’ll see it in your director’s eyebrows. There’s no waiting a week for a grade. The music tells you right away what needs fixing, and sometimes you even get to fix it in real time. That’s powerful.

Built-in movement — Sitting still is overrated. In music class, you’re doing something. Fingers moving. Breath flowing. Sticks flying. Even when I’m teaching, I stim with a baton or pencil in hand. Movement isn’t punished—it’s part of the learning.

Accountability without shame — In ensemble, if I don’t show up, my section feels it. But instead of lectures or punishment, you usually just get a “You good?” or “We missed you.” That kind of accountability—gentle, human, and team-focused—goes a long way for students who are already trying their hardest just to keep it together.

If you’ve ever wondered how music helps neurodivergent students, here’s the truth:

We’ve been learning executive functioning this whole time.
We just call it rehearsal.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s why so many of us stay.

07/07/2025

Starting the school year in music education is like launching a small company—if the CEO also cleaned the floors and fixed the printers.

Instruments. Uniforms. Seating charts. Recruiting. Scheduling. Repair logs. Room setups. Sound systems. Fundraising. Repertoire selection. Parent communication. Reordering reeds again because Jimmy is eating them.

Oh—and actually teaching.

So if you see a music teacher in these comings weeks/month, maybe say:
“You’re doing holy work.”
Or at least: “Do you need caffeine and/or a hug?”

06/09/2025

Teaching general ed music courses constantly pushes me to reflect on cultural diversity and the role it plays in our lives today.

The music we listen to in my courses—West African rhythms, Native American traditions, spirituals, mariachi, jazz, blues, hip-hop—it all comes from real people, real communities, with deep stories. Stories of identity, survival, joy, pain, and strength. It’s honestly beautiful when you stop and think about it.

But it’s also heavy. Because so many of those same communities are still fighting for basic rights and to be treated like they matter in our country. The music is celebrated, but the people are not.

That’s what hits me the most. Music connects us to those stories in a way nothing else really can. It reminds us of where we come from, and who we need to stand up for. As educators, musicians, and people, we can’t separate music from the world around us. It’s not just art—it’s a way to build empathy, understanding, and even change—and we need that now more than ever.

06/03/2025

I may be in higher ed now, but it’s only been a year since I packed up my public school classroom—and I still feel it in my bones. The end-of-year exhaustion. The mental load. The constant pressure to smile through it all. It doesn’t leave you quickly.

And no, the exhaustion wasn’t just about the kids.

We’re tired because…
• Planning time gets eaten up by meetings that should’ve been emails.
• New mandates roll down from people who haven’t set foot in a classroom in years.
• Expectations keep rising, but support rarely does.
• We’re expected to be experts in trauma-informed care, differentiated instruction, tech integration, test prep, behavior management, and curriculum redesign—all at once.
• Every year (and sometimes mid-year), the target shifts: new policies, new platforms, new acronyms, new hoops.

And through it all, we’re still expected to be “on.” Engaged. Creative. Energetic. Calm. Kind. Responsive. Unshakable.

It’s not that teachers don’t love what we do. We do. But love doesn’t make a broken system sustainable.

The exhaustion isn’t just physical—it’s mental, emotional, systemic. And if we don’t start naming that out loud, we’ll keep losing good teachers to burnout—not because they weren’t strong enough, but because they were asked to carry too much for too long, with too little support.

05/27/2025

I went in to the school to work today after two weeks of summer break. The classrooms were quiet.

It always catches me off guard—that sudden stillness after months of motion. No instruments. No laughter from the back row. No students stopping in to the music department just to sit and exist in the space.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what we actually do as music educators, as is evident of most of my posts. Yes, we teach skills and repertoire. We prepare concerts and hold rehearsals and tune the same clarinet six times a week. But underneath all of that, we build something deeper.

We create places where students feel safe to be themselves. Where they can be weird and wonderful and loud and unsure. Where they find people who accept them without question.

And honestly? That kind of work is exhausting in a way that most people don’t see. It’s beautiful, yes—but it costs something. And now that it’s summer, I’m finally feeling it.

So if you’re sitting in the quiet like I am—feeling a little disoriented, a little drained—you’re not alone. This season matters. It’s not about doing nothing. It’s about making space for healing, reflection, and breath.

We can’t carry our students if we never put anything back in ourselves. So here’s to rest. Real rest. The kind that isn’t performative or productive. Just… honest.

Because when the time comes to rebuild, to pour into our people again, we’ll be ready. And we’ll have more to give—because we took the time to fill back up.

05/12/2025

This time of year always sneaks up on us. One minute we’re tuning instruments and handing out music, and the next, we’re saying goodbye.

The end of the school year isn’t just about seniors in caps and gowns. It’s about the quiet goodbyes we say all year long—to the kids moving on to high school, to new schools, to life beyond our programs.

As music educators, we don’t just teach songs. We build spaces where students find themselves. Sometimes we’re the only class where they feel like they can breathe. Sometimes we’re the only adult who sees them as more than a grade or a behavior slip.

They may not all become musicians, but they were musicians here. They showed up, they worked, they laughed, they messed up and tried again. They made this space what it was—for themselves and for each other.

And now they’re moving on.

It’s hard to let go, especially when you’ve watched them grow into something stronger than they knew they could be. But remember: our job isn’t to keep them. It’s to give them something worth carrying with them when they go.

If they leave our classrooms feeling like they mattered—that they belonged—then we’ve done something right.

05/09/2025

Teacher Appreciation Week always gives me a moment to pause and reflect—not just on where I’ve been, but on why I continue to show up.

I’ve spent my career building programs up—not always from scratch, but always with heart. Whether growing something small into something strong or helping an established program find new life, I’ve poured everything into creating spaces where students can thrive. Not just musically, but as people.

The truth is, I care—sometimes almost too much. I carry my students with me long after the last note of a concert fades. I lose sleep over how to help them succeed, how to make things better, how to reach just one more student. It’s never just been a job to me—it’s been a calling.

I’ve carried armfuls of instruments across parking lots, cried in my car after tough days, and celebrated big wins—some on stage, some behind the scenes. I’ve watched students find their voice, their confidence, their place in the world. And somewhere along the way, I started to find mine too.

This career hasn’t always been easy. But it has always, always been worth it.

To every educator out there giving your all—you’re not alone. You’re seen. And what you do matters more than you’ll ever know.

Happy Teacher Appreciation Week!

05/05/2025

It’s Teacher Appreciation Week, and I just want to say this as plainly as I can: thank you.

To every educator—whether you’re in a classroom, on a stage, in a lab, behind a desk, or out on a playground—your work matters. The way you show up, even on the hard days, even when no one’s clapping or noticing or saying it out loud… it makes a difference.

You plant seeds you may never see grow. You spark ideas, build trust, give second chances, and hold space for growth in a world that doesn’t always make room for it. That’s no small thing.

So whether you’re a first-year teacher still figuring it out, or a seasoned pro who’s been holding it down for decades—thank you. You’re doing work that is meaningful, and the ripple effect is real.

You are seen. You are appreciated. You are making a difference.

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