There are educators who teach, and then there are educators who see. Cindy Frohning is unmistakably the latter.

For more than two decades—26 years and counting—Cindy has been a steady, energetic, deeply human force within Jasper County Schools. Her journey has taken her across buildings, grade levels, and evolving roles, but the throughline has never changed: a belief in students that is both unwavering and, at times, transformative.

She began, not as a teacher, but as a paraprofessional—already immersed in the work, already learning the rhythms of classrooms, already building relationships with students who needed someone in their corner. From those early days at Grove and beyond, her path unfolded naturally into teaching, as if it had always been waiting for her.

“I always wanted to be a teacher,” she reflects in her conversation. It’s the kind of statement that feels simple on the surface, but in Cindy’s case, it carries the weight of lived experience—raising three children, becoming a grandmother of four (with another on the way), and then stepping fully into a career that would ultimately shape hundreds of young lives.

Her classroom is anything but static.

Cindy has taught across nearly every level imaginable—kindergarten through high school—adapting not only to curriculum changes but to the ever-shifting needs of her students. And in special education, that adaptability isn’t optional; it’s essential.

“You’ve got to meet them where they are,” she explains, but not in the abstract way the phrase is often used. In her world, that means something far more dynamic. It means walking into a classroom where no two students process information the same way, where learning isn’t linear, and where success might look entirely different from one student to the next.

It also means being, as her interviewer aptly described, something of an improvisational artist.

“You’re like an improv performer,” he tells her at one point—acknowledging the unpredictable, real-time adjustments that define her work. Cindy doesn’t resist that idea. She leans into it. Because that’s exactly what the job requires: presence, flexibility, and a willingness to try something new when the first approach doesn’t land.

And she does try new things—constantly.

Technology has been one of her quiet superpowers. Long before it became standard practice, Cindy was the teacher exploring smart boards, troubleshooting classroom tools, and helping colleagues navigate emerging tech. Today, that curiosity translates into practical strategies—text-to-speech tools, dictation supports, and digital accommodations that help students access learning in ways that actually work for them.

But even as she embraces technology, she never lets it replace human judgment.

“Just because you have spell check,” she tells her students, “doesn’t mean it makes sense.”

That balance—between innovation and common sense, between tools and trust—is part of what makes her classroom effective.

At the heart of Cindy’s philosophy is a powerful and often misunderstood truth about special education.

“I think the biggest misunderstanding,” she says, “is that people think the students can’t learn.”

She doesn’t hesitate when she says it. And she doesn’t soften it.

Because she has seen, year after year, that they can learn. They do learn. Sometimes it takes longer. Sometimes it requires a different pathway. But capability is never the issue.

“It’s not that you can’t do it,” she tells her students. “It might just take you twice as long.”

That belief changes everything.

It shifts the narrative from limitation to possibility. It creates space for students to engage without fear of failure. And perhaps most importantly, it invites them to see themselves differently.

That invitation extends beyond the classroom walls.

Through transition programs—what was once called STEP and now operates under a new name—Cindy helps students step into the real world with purpose and confidence. These are not hypothetical exercises; they are real job experiences, real responsibilities, and, in some cases, real employment opportunities that grow out of those placements.

The learning is tangible: managing tasks, interacting with employers, building routines, and discovering capability in environments that once felt out of reach.

Back in the school building, that same philosophy plays out in smaller but equally meaningful ways. The “coffee cart” program, for example, isn’t just about delivering drinks—it’s about communication, responsibility, inventory management, and social interaction. Students greet staff, track supplies, read labels carefully, and learn to take ownership of their work.

These moments—seemingly simple—are anything but.

They are rehearsals for life.

And Cindy knows it.

She also knows she hasn’t done it alone.

Throughout her career, she is quick to credit paraprofessionals, administrators, and colleagues who have supported her work and, in many cases, made it possible. That humility isn’t performative—it’s deeply held. She understands that education, at its best, is a collective effort.

Now, as she approaches the next chapter—retirement, though she clearly has no intention of slowing down—Cindy reflects with a mix of gratitude and wonder.

“It is neat to see,” she says, thinking of former students now grown, some raising families of their own. “It’s amazing.”

That word—amazing—feels right.

Because what she has built isn’t just a career. It’s a legacy of belief.

A belief that students are capable.

A belief that learning can look different.

A belief that, with the right support, the right patience, and the right person in their corner, every student can find their way forward.

And for more than 26 years in Jasper County, Cindy Frohning has been exactly that person.