The Space In Between Numbers by Ashley Esquerra 

“Canyon Hills, The World’s Greatest Junior High!” That’s the phrase repeated to me over 100 times so far in the 146 days of school I’ve experienced.  If you couldn’t tell, I’m a little bit of a numbers geek. I find myself measuring things without thinking; minutes until the bell, percentages in the gradebook, the days until Friday. Even this place starts to feel like something you can calculate, six hours a day, five days a week, 180 days a school year. These numbers give us a way to view how we are doing in life. In an odd sense, we can say that Canyon Hills runs on numbers. I notice myself using these numbers in small moments too, like walking through the hallways between classes, when everyone is moving at the same time, all trying to get somewhere before the bell. With only a few minutes between periods, I find myself counting them without thinking, as if I am calculating how much time I have left before everything starts again.  Somehow, it shows me how much of school is built around numbers and timing. They tell us when to move; when to stop; when we’re succeeding; and when we’re falling behind. In simpler terms, they give us something to look forward to—something to motivate us. This includes countdowns to dances, breaks, even to the last day of school. Still, I find that the things that cannot be calculated by numbers are the ones that truly matter. Yes, numbers are steady. They are precise calculations that we trust and rely on.  Regardless, I have observed that the things that are meaningful do not have a definite answer. 

I still remember my first dance. It was Halloween and surprisingly one of the most memorable events of the school year. I know it seems silly at my young age, but I somehow felt mature. Like someone who was independent and having fun on her own, without feeling conscious of others looking or staring at her.  That was the moment I knew I was going to be okay in this world. It reminded me that although I was scared coming in, maybe the future isn't as scary as it seems.

I always hear junior high is one of the most crucial times of my life. It is supposed to be the time in your life where you change the most; where you figure out who you are. Still, those things can’t be measured either, which makes them feel unstable, unlike the safety and comfort of numbers.  What makes Canyon Hills Junior High special is not its peculiar habit of telling everyone it is the best school, or the way we tend to try to prove ourselves through titles and statistics. No, it is based on the numbers left unseen.  In fact, it’s not the numbers we’re told to focus on, but rather the ones that can never be written down.  The experiences that make each and every one of us unique.  At Canyon Hills, what makes us different is that we don't strive only for perfection; we look for the bonds we develop, the challenges we push through, the battles we choose not to face alone.   

In ways I don’t always notice right away, Canyon Hills has already changed me. It has made me more confident, more independent, and more willing to step into things that once felt uncertain. Moments like my first dance showed me that growth doesn’t always happen in big, obvious ways, but in quiet realizations that stay with you. Looking ahead, I think what I’ve learned here will follow me into the future—not just in what I achieve, but in how I approach challenges and new experiences. Even in small ways, like being present for friends or sharing those same uncertain moments, I know I’ve been part of someone else’s experience too, just like they’ve been part of mine.

Canyon Hills doesn’t feel permanent, and maybe it’s not supposed to. It's like a garden. At first it is desolate, filled with the calming quiet presence of dirt. From the outside, it looks like nothing is happening.  Just dirt being dirt.  If you judged it too early, you'd think it was pointless, unless you see what is going on under the surface.  Below what your eyes could follow, roots take shape underground.  Quiet work, the kind that doesn't show, until one warm sunny day, it does.  People pass through Canyon Hills in different stages of becoming—not fully who they were entering, and not yet who they’re going to be leaving. You can see it in how everything shifts over time, friend groups, priorities, even personalities slowly forming into something new.  The buildings remain the same, but the people inside them don’t. Soon we find that the garden planted earlier is sprouting with life—bees, butterflies, and flowers surrounding you.  Every day we find ourselves changing, evolving, growing. Some of this change is intentional, but most of it happens quietly, until one day you realize you’re not the same person who first walked in. Canyon Hills isn’t something you can fully measure while you’re inside it. Sure you can count the 146 days I’ve been here so far, or the 180 days that make up a school year, but those digits don’t explain what actually happens during them. In a way, I suppose maybe that’s the point. The numbers give us something to rely on, but the meaning lives on in everything they can’t capture.