Dear friends,
As we welcome the New Year, I'll also be welcoming a new weekly coaching group. This story makes me think of the transformational learning from our inaugural cohort this fall.
Enjoy!
When I was in my first year as an elementary school principal, I volunteered—perhaps too eagerly—to host the science lab's leopard geckos over spring break (more about the leopard geckos here). At the very last moment, as we were loading the car, I got a call from a colleague: the family meant to host the kindergarten hermit crab had fallen through. Could I take it, too?
“Of course,” I said, with confidence. After all, it was just a little plastic tub. How hard could it be?
We set off for our staycation, my three kids (at that time Pre-K, second grade, and fourth grade) chattering in the back seat, the car packed with creatures and their respective habitats.
Once we got home, as anticipated, the hermit crab kept mostly to itself. At first, the kids watched it climb around its enclosure, sipping water, and adjusting to its new surroundings. But soon, their interest waned. By day three, the job of refilling the water and checking on it had quietly become mine.
By the second week, I started to notice the hermit crab wasn’t moving much. Days went by, and still, nothing. I leaned in close, trying to catch the tiniest twitch. None.
I began to worry.
Was it dead?
I didn’t dare pick it up to check. What if I was right? I imagined myself explaining to the kindergarteners how their beloved hermit crab had met its untimely end in the principal’s living room.
I convinced myself it was better not to know.
As the end of the vacation approached, I knew I couldn't put off the inevitable much longer. Luckily, my mother came to visit. An environmental educator with years of experience nurturing sick and injured wildlife, she didn’t hesitate when I confessed my fears.
She calmly took the cage over to the trash can, picked up the shell, and gave it a shake.
A dried-out piece of hermit crab fell out.
Yep. Dead.
She gave the shell another shake. More pieces fell out.
The hermit crab was gone. I’d failed.
I mentally rehearsed the email I was going to have to send to the teachers. I imagined facing the kindergarteners on Monday morning.
But as my mother set the empty shell on the counter, she hesitated.
“It’s funny,” she said. “It feels like there’s still something inside.”
She turned the shell over and held it up to the light.
"Huh!" She exclaimed. "It's heavier than I would expect from an empty shell."
My curiosity overcame my dread.
I peered in.
And then we both saw it: a faint pink shape deep within.
Was it… moving?
It was moving. Ever so slightly. Holding itself together tightly inside its shell.
How was that possible?
We looked back in the trash.
On closer inspection, the bits she’d shaken out were indeed an exact replica of the hermit crab—claws, legs, and antennae. But what we saw in the trash (and were now carefully picking out!) wasn't the crab itself but its old exoskeleton, left behind as it outgrew its old protective layer.
And the pink thing in the shell? That was the real hermit crab—soft, delicate, and impossibly alive.
It took days for it to fully recover from its transition. At first, it barely moved, just peeking out of its shell. Then slowly, tentatively, its claws began to stretch forward, testing the world.
By the time we returned it to the kindergarteners, the hermit crab had emerged in all its glory. And as I set its habitat back in the classroom, it stretched out boldly as if to say, “Hi! I'm back!”
It took days for me to recover, too.
Having grown up in Maine, you might have thought I would have understood the shell-shedding habits of crustaceans. Who knew hermit crabs and lobsters had so much in common?!
I knew I had learned an extraordinary lesson from this little classroom pet.
Even now, years later, I think about that hermit crab whenever I feel myself in the throes of a transition -- shedding a job, a home, a vision for the future. The process of molting is uncomfortable, vulnerable, and messy. But it’s also nature’s way of making space for growth.
Coaching is often about navigating those moments when you feel stripped of your protective layers, unsure of what comes next. Like the hermit crab, we hold space for growth—even when it feels uncomfortable. We don’t emerge unchanged. And we don’t emerge instantly. There’s a necessary pause, a quieting, a time to gather strength for what’s next. But when we’re ready, we stretch forward, testing the world again and reclaiming our place in it.
If you find yourself in transition this New Year, I hope you’ll remember that even in the most tender moments, there’s life waiting on the other side—soft, delicate, and impossibly alive.
Sarah
Ready to embrace your next transformation? Join an upcoming coaching group and navigate the journey with support and clarity.
Comments