Lost & Found, While I Was Still Lost Myself

Lost & Found, While I Was Still Lost Myself

By : SueSue

During the second month of my work at a school, I was unexpectedly placed in charge of the Lost & Found, while I myself felt lost and was still trying to find my place.

The principal, having observed my humility (some might say too much humility), asked me to take over the entire Lost & Found system. She told me I could take items home to wash, bring them back, distribute them, keep them for emergencies, or even call each parent using our automated phone system. She said she had done this herself before, though I had my doubts. I had started just a month or two after her and had never seen her touch a lost jacket.

But instead of questioning the request, my default response kicked in,
"Sure, I’ll do it. We’re all here to help, right?"

So I took it on, the whole chaotic mess of it: jackets, sweaters, toys, water bottles, books, umbrellas, even pants. Piled high in bins, collecting dust, and half-molded from who-knows-when. I sorted it all into large black trash bags and carried them into the multipurpose room (MPR), determined to make something meaningful out of the mess.

I went from classroom to classroom collecting hangers and stands, bought more from the store with my own money, and spent hours after my shift organizing everything. I created posters and flyers, turned it into a “Parent Engagement Event,” took pictures, uploaded them to my highlight reports. I tried to make it look official, polished even. A "project" I could be proud of.

But it wasn’t my job. Not even close.

That week, I missed deadlines. My data was late. I had canceled plans, worked through breaks, and showed up early, all to create something that wasn’t even mine to carry. Parents barely took anything, and some were hesitant to be seen collecting “charity” for fear their children might be teased. One mother came and said the principal told her she could take several bags for a garage sale. I said yes, why not? Later, the principal turned around and accused her of lying.

Eventually, my supervisor called. Calm and respectful, but clearly frustrated.
"I admire your heart, but this is not your job. I need you to ask me next time before taking on something like this. And from now on, let’s keep your focus on what you were hired to do. If it’s not in the system, it’s not done."

He was right. I had taken it too far, not because I cared too much, but because I didn’t pause to ask whether it was mine to take care of.

At the next team meeting, I shared the event as a “highlight,” expecting smiles or support. Instead, there were strange looks. I realized then that I had made myself the punchline of a joke no one else found funny.

The principal later smiled and said, “Well, at least you got some exercise. It's good for your body. Gloves on, sweat a little, it’s healthy.”
That was supposed to be my reward.

And somehow, for the next four years, even when I was on site only once a week, Lost & Found became my job. Not in writing, not by title, not by pay. Just because I had said yes once.

One coworker, sarcastic, maybe cruel, maybe honest, joked, “You’re a loser. You’re lost. Someone needs to find you.” It stung, mostly because it rang true. I had tried to fix everything and ended up lost in the pile myself.

And that’s the lesson I carry now: when you're too quick to prove your worth through service, you risk being taken for granted, or worse, assigned to tasks that bury your purpose.

Sometimes, the hardest part of being found is learning to say no.