When I learned that Esau had died by suicide, I was sitting on my porch.

His mentor had called me twice. We had exchanged text messages trying to find time to talk over summer break, but I had not understood the urgency.

Then I learned why he had been trying so hard to reach me.

Esau was gone.

There was grief. There was guilt. There was disbelief.

But underneath all of that was another emotion that surprised me:

Gratitude.

I was grateful that Esau and I had already made it through winter.

When I first met him, he was confident, loud, smart, funny and full of personality. He paid attention to people. He learned you before deciding what kind of relationship he was willing to have with you.

At first, we had warmth.

Then came moments where he undermined directions and tested boundaries.

That was usually where winter began for me.

For years, I had seen the same rhythm with students:

Warmth.

Testing.

Winter.

Respect.

Then spring.

And spring always came.

Some of the students I once had the hardest relationships with still call me today. I still call them.

We became family.

So I had every reason to believe in the rhythm.

Winter worked.

Rigid accountability never meant I stopped caring. It simply meant the temperature changed.

I became more direct.

Less restorative language.

More law and order.

I still cared.

I still advocated.

I still believed.

But the student may not have felt all of that.

That is what Esau changed for me.

Not my belief in accountability.

My relationship with temperature.

His mentor helped shorten our winter.

He came to the school, sat with Esau and invited me into the conversation. He spoke using colloquial language and a familiarity that allowed serious conversations about life, responsibility, relationships, identity and power to feel natural.

I sat and shared perspective in the same language.

Esau watched the two of us understand one another.

Something shifted.

His mentor gave us a speed-pass.

Esau did not have to spend another month trying to determine whether I understood him. He watched somebody he already trust recognize something familiar in me.

After that, Esau started dapping me up.

He initiated conversations.

He accepted redirection differently.

And I got to experience more of him.

The playful version.

The funny version.

The young man who brought joy into classrooms and had meaningful relationships with his peers.

Those ordinary memories feel sacred now.

Before Esau left this world, reconciliation was real.

Our hearts had peace.

And that leaves me with a question I cannot shake:

What if I had lost him in the cold?

I would have had to wonder whether my voice had become one more distant institutional voice in the life of a young person who had already spent enough time wondering whether adults and systems truly saw him.

Instead, I know we made it back to each other.

That has changed my relationship with time.

I still believe spring comes.

What I no longer believe is that I have unlimited time to wait for it.

I still hold boundaries.

I still believe in accountability.

I still tell students no.

But I no longer believe any of that requires emotional distance.

The hoodie may matter.

The human wearing it matters more.

I am approaching my work now with holy intentions.

More compassion.

More curiosity about what students are carrying.

More willingness to say, “We have bigger fish to fry.”

And less willingness to leave a student in winter.

My charge to every educator, disciplinarian, mentor and school leader working with young people who have already experienced rejection is simple:

Shorten the winter.

Hold the boundary.

Give the consequence when necessary.

Say no when no is necessary.

But do not make warmth the reward for compliance.

Let warmth be the place where accountability happens.

You can dislike me in the warm.

You can be angry with me in the warm.

I can hold you accountable in the warm.

But we are in a warm place.

That is final.

Because none of us knows which conversation will be the last one.