entry sixty-seven

 Wednesday, July 2, 2025

I’ve been reflecting lately on why I’ve stayed in this work for so long—not just physically present, but truly rooted, even when it’s been hard. I used to think it was about having endless energy or relentless optimism. But now I see that kind of fire burns out quickly. What sustains me is quieter, steadier—like an oak tree. It’s not about standing tall or reaching high, but about how deeply the roots grow beneath the surface. After all these years, the soil around me holds so much—the names of students I still carry with me, colleagues who have moved on, and systems that have shifted, sometimes for better, sometimes not. Through it all, I remain—not untouched, but still here.

This past year tested that rootedness in ways I hadn’t expected. It wasn’t one big event but a slow erosion—too many demands, not enough support. The ground beneath me shifted gradually, and I felt myself leaning, just a little. I kept showing up, kept doing the work, but inside, something began to numb. Like bark growing over an old wound—not broken, but protected and distant. That numbness scared me more than the stress itself. And still, I stayed. I didn’t leave.

I’ve come to understand that even the strongest trees crack in tough seasons. The oak doesn’t grow without damage—it grows through it. Its rings hold the story of every storm it’s weathered, every scar it’s carried. I carry mine too—in restless nights, in tight muscles, in the way I sometimes flinch at the ping of an email. But I’m learning to care for myself differently—to prune when necessary, to rest without guilt, to ask for help without shame. That’s not giving up. That’s growing wisely.

There’s something sacred about longevity—not because it makes me better than anyone else, but because it’s taught me how to endure with intention and care. I’ve outlasted policies, new initiatives, and burnout cycles. I’ve watched new teachers come in full of hope and tried to show them how to hold compassion and boundaries at the same time. I want them to last, too. An oak tree doesn’t rush. It doesn’t perform. It simply remains—quietly offering shade, standing firm through every storm. That’s how I see my role now. I’m not the loudest voice in the room. I’m steady. I’m still here—not because it’s easy, but because it matters.

I’ve changed. I don’t push through pain like I used to. I’ve started recognizing the early signs of burnout—the fatigue that doesn’t fade, the growing distance, the frustration. Now, I listen to those signs instead of ignoring them. I make space for rest, therapy, and small, everyday joys that remind me who I am beyond teaching. I’m learning to make room for myself—something I used to put last.

I’m still standing. I’m still here. Not the same as before, but like an oak tree that’s been shaped by many storms. Some parts are cracked, some parts stronger. I’m more grounded now—aware of what I need to keep going. That doesn’t mean everything is fixed, but I understand what it takes to keep doing this work with integrity—and to care for myself along the way. That, to me, is enough and enough counts.

“Wisdom of an Oak Tree”

I did not notice
when the roots first began to ache,
buried deep beneath the surface
where no one thought to look.

Above ground, I stood
like I always had—
solid, reliable,
leaves in place,
duties done.

Holding everything
is not the same as being whole.

Seasons blurred.
Demands grew heavy
on limbs stretched farther
than they were meant to go.

Still, I stayed.
Because that’s what oaks do.
We hold, we carry,
they stand firm when it counts.

Until the wind finds
what hasn’t been spoken—
a quiet splinter
deep in the core.

And suddenly
what was steady
starts to sway.

I thought rest was weakness.
I thought stepping back
meant stepping away.

An oak tree knows
when to stop blooming,
when to let the leaves fall,
and that pausing
is not the same as giving up.

Now, I listen differently—
not to the noise around me,
but to the small cracks within.

I have learned
what an oak tree has always known:

I don’t grow
by staying unchanged.
I grow
by breaking where I must
and rooting deeper anyway.

entry sixty-six

 Tuesday, July 1, 2025

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how much I cover up just to get through the day—old hope, old versions of myself, old plans. That’s what this piece reminds me of. It started as something else—something bright and blooming—and I painted over it. Not to erase it, but to make space for what needed to come next. Maybe that’s what recovery feels like too: not a restart, but a layering.

Three circles emerged, one inside the next, like those nesting dolls I used to play with as a child, wondering what I’d find at the center. Red. Then orange. Then yellow. The yellow glows softly at the core—steady, warm, quietly alive. I find myself returning to it with curiosity, maybe even hope. Is it a piece of me that endured the burnout, untouched? Or is it something new—something that could only surface now that so much else has peeled away? I don’t know yet, but it feels like truth. Like something essential I forgot I had. 

The blue surrounding it feels like a sea, but not the kind that pulls you under. It’s the kind you float in when you’re too tired to swim. Vast, steady, forgiving. I didn’t realize how much I needed that color—how much I needed something to hold me—until it appeared. It doesn’t ask anything of me. It just exists, wrapping softly around the edges of the chaos. The lines still tremble, the circles still pulse with tension, but the blue stays. Constant and quiet. Almost like it’s saying, “You don’t have to carry it all right now.” For a moment, I believed it.

There’s a man—standing face-to-face with a butterfly, outlined in white, like light, like grace. I didn’t place him there on purpose. He just arrived. He’s not chasing or turning away. He’s present. The butterfly says: “Change is a chance to fly.” That line is unsettling to me. I was so focused on surviving this past school year, I haven’t thought about what I’m becoming. Do I need to change? Has burnout already changed me? Is the recovery process reshaping me in ways I haven’t even named? I used to fear change—mostly because it felt like losing parts of myself I worked hard to build. Lately, I wonder if holding on so tightly is what has made my burnout worse. What if some of those parts needed to shift?

Two words live inside this piece—LISTEN, bold and commanding at the top, and BREATHE, soft and unassuming at the bottom. At first, they seemed simple - almost obvious. The longer I sat with them, the more they began to feel like messages I had not realized I needed. It is not advice - more like quiet invitations from somewhere deep within me. LISTEN - not just to the noise around me, but to what has gone quiet, to what is no longer working, and what is asking to be let go. BREATHE - not to move past the pain caused by my burnout, but to be with it - gently. To also remember I am more than the weight I carry. Together, these messages offer a kind of rhythm and a way back to myself I almost forgot existed. They feel like permission to not fix everything at once. To be in process. To find worth in small and steady steps. 

This artwork doesn’t offer answers. It doesn’t promise a resolution or relief. It feels like a mirror—quiet, steady, and honest. It reflects not who I should be, or who I was before my burnout, but something softer: a glimpse of who I might be becoming. Not fixed, not finished—just still here. Still trying. In that reflection, I see something I didn’t realize I was missing: possibility. Not the kind that shouts, but the kind that whispers, “Maybe.” Maybe this is enough. Maybe this is a beginning. Small wins.

This is Not the End

mixed media on metal

me: I’ve looked at you so many times without really seeing you. Something asked me to sit and stay longer with you.

This is Not the End: You’ve been moving for so long. Sometimes stillness feels foreign—uncomfortable, even. But that discomfort is where something begins to shift.

me: I didn’t expect to feel anything. I thought I was just tired. But sitting here, I feel… something loosening. The blue—it doesn’t feel empty. It feels like a place to land.

This is Not the End: Yes. It’s not here to swallow you. It’s here to hold you. You’ve been carrying so much. You needed somewhere soft to put it down.

me: Those circles—concentric, layered, warm. I keep wondering: is the yellow at the center who I was? Or who I’m becoming?

This is Not the Ende: Maybe both. Maybe that brightness never left—it just got buried beneath the noise. You’re peeling back the layers now. Not to go back, but to remember what still lives in you.

me: Then there’s the man. Facing the butterfly. He’s still. No reaching, no resistance. Just presence. That message: “Change is a chance to fly.” It unsettles me.

This is Not the End: Change hasn’t been kind lately. You associate it with loss and with exhaustion. Not all change breaks. Some change unfolds. This change? It’s quiet and internal. 

me: I thought burnout had flattened me. That I’d lost something essential. This piece… it doesn’t feel like loss. It feels like a whisper saying, “You’re still here.”

This is Not the End: Exactly. Not as you were, perhaps. But not less. Just different. Still breathing. Still becoming. Still worthy of care.

me: At the top, you tell me to listen. At the bottom, to breathe. They’re so simple, but those messages feel like… something sacred. Like instructions I didn’t know I needed.

This is Not the End: You’ve been surviving on noise and reaction. These words invite a different kind of living. Listen—to what hurts. To what’s no longer aligned. Breathe—not just to get through, but to come home to yourself.

me: You’ve named yourself This Is Not the End. I think I needed that reminder.

This is Not the End: You did. Not just once; you may need it again and again. That’s okay. Healing isn’t a straight line. You’re on the path. You’re pausing. You’re witnessing and that’s where restoration begins.

me: Maybe it’s not about returning to who I was. Maybe it’s about learning who I am, now. Maybe… that’s enough.

This is Not the End: More than enough. This is not the end. This is a beginning you didn’t expect—but one you’re ready for.

What Stays

I’ve learned to smile
through clenched teeth,
to keep showing up
when something inside me
was already slipping away.

I wore resilience like armor,
hoping no one would see
how tired I’d become
of pretending.

There were days

when desire slipped away—

everything felt out of reach,

and survival was all I knew.

Even then—
beneath the fatigue,
beneath the silence—
something stayed.

Soft-spoken.
Hesitant.
A subtle echo
that I’m still holding on.

Now, I sit in that quiet
and let it speak.
It tells me I don’t need
to hold everything.
That letting go
can be a kind of mercy.

I ache for the parts of me
I abandoned just to keep going.
I’m learning:
they haven’t left.
They’ve been waiting
for me to slow down long enough
to return.

This isn’t a victory.
It’s not relief.
It’s real, 

and it’s mine.

That is something.
That is what stays.

entry sixty-five

 Monday, June 30, 2025

School is out, and the house is quiet. Not the kind of quiet I used to crave at the end of a long day—the fleeting, fragile hush before the next obligation—but something deeper. Heavier. Like the quiet that settles after a storm you didn’t realize had been raging for months. The space feels unfamiliar. Spacious, even. I don't quite trust it yet.

My mother came over for lunch today. We didn’t talk about school. We didn’t have to. There was comfort in the ordinary, in the way her presence didn’t demand anything from me. After a year that hollowed me out, it felt like a small act of repair—to sit across from someone who sees me not as a teacher, or someone burned out, but simply as her daughter. In her quiet company, I was reminded that even in all the unraveling, softness still exists—tender, unspoken, and waiting to be noticed. It felt like being gently reminded that there’s a version of me outside the classroom. One who isn’t always rushing, reacting, managing.

After lunch, my mother offered some thoughts on the neurographic art piece I’d been working on. She liked the colors but felt it was missing something. Together, we decided to add a hummingbird and a girl walking in the rain. Later, after she left, I returned to the kitchen table where the artwork sat, edges slightly curled. I hadn’t planned to revisit it today, but the softer, slower light drew me in. Looking closely, I noticed something new: the colors—yellow, orange, green, and blue—flowed into each other like breath, softened by my absence. The lines, once chaotic, now felt tender, curved, alive. In that moment, something in me finally exhaled.

The hummingbird was hovering low over a puddle—not a flower like in traditional imagery. The wasn’t something beautiful on the surface - just a quiet pool of leftover rain. Still, the bird drank. That detail—small, specific, unintentional—caught me. Maybe that’s what I’ve missed all year. The tiny offerings. The puddles I was too busy to notice. The ways my body and spirit were asking to be nourished, even as I kept pushing through. Maybe healing doesn’t look like a clean break or a return to who I was. Maybe it’s this: recognizing there is still sweetness to be found in what remains. Those small wins!

Then, the girl with the umbrella, walking through the rain. She isn’t rushing. Her boots splash through the water with ease. She doesn’t seem afraid of being wet, or watched, or weary. She just moves. Am I her? I don’t know. Some days, I feel more like the puddle—stagnant and overlooked. Other days, like the rain itself—relentless and just too much. Today, I felt something in me soften. Something slow and unsteady that didn’t ask me to define it, just to sit with it. Maybe that’s what healing is: not fixing, but witnessing.

Burnout is still with me. It lingers in my body, in my sleep, in the way I brace myself even in silence. But sitting at this table, with color and curve and memory, I remembered that I am still here. That the part of me who notices—the part who creates, who pauses, who feels—is still intact. Maybe I am the girl. Maybe I am the hummingbird. Maybe I am simply learning to stay. Maybe, for now, that’s enough.

The Girl and the Hummingbird

mixed media on paper

me: I didn’t plan to return to you today, but here I am. You seem different—quieter somehow and more patient.

The Girl and the Hummingbird: I’ve been here, waiting in the stillness you needed. The colors softened while you stepped away, learning to hold space for your breath.

me: I was caught in so much noise—inside and out. Before, your lines felt tangled, restless. Now, they seem gentle, almost caring.

The Girl and the Hummingbird: That restlessness was part of your journey. Healing often begins in quiet moments, when we finally allow softness to settle in.

me: The hummingbird you carry—why is it drinking from a puddle, not a flower?

The Girl and the Hummingbird: Sometimes nourishment comes from unexpected places—small moments overlooked and simple gifts left behind. You have been thirsty for too long.

me: What about the girl with the umbrella walking through rain—does she know where she’s going? Or is she just learning to move despite not knowing?

The Girl and the Hummingbird: She is learning that moving forward doesn’t require certainty or dryness. Sometimes, presence in the moment is the only way through.

me: I feel like both the puddle and the rain—still and overwhelming, fragile and relentless. How do I make peace with that?

The Girl and the Hummingbird: You don’t have to choose. Both can exist within you. Healing is not about fixing what’s broken but embracing all parts with gentle awareness.

me: It’s strange, this space between storm and calm. Maybe it’s a space I need—to simply be, to notice, to breathe.

The Girl and the Hummingbird: Yes. I hold this space with you—in every curve and color. There is power in simply staying, in patient presence.

Between Tension and Calm

The silence that settles—
not just a pause before the next thing,
but a soft, deep breath,
like a hug wrapping around the heart,
slowly letting go.

There’s a quiet kindness here,
woven into simple moments—
a gentle touch that soothes,
a look that says, “I see you,”
a space where just being is enough.

Edges soften, colors blend,
not sharp or hurried,
but tender and open,
where broken pieces find rest
and begin to bloom again.

A small creature lingers—
not chasing bright lights,
but finding warmth in hidden places,
drawing quiet strength
from the little things left behind.

And someone moves—
feet steady on gentle paths,
not rushing or hiding,
just flowing with the moment,
learning that being carried
feels like home.

Here, in gentle unfolding,
healing is not fixing,
but a soft embrace,
a patient presence,
a sweet, steady staying.

Maybe this is enough—
to notice, to hold, to breathe,
between tension and calm,
finding a tender way home.

entry sixty-four

 Friday, June 27, 2025

    I am no longer at school. The hallways, the bells, the constant motion—they're behind me now. The silence in my days feels strange, but also like a kind of relief. For the first time in months, I’m not bracing myself. My body is slowly returning to me, no longer running on urgency or adrenaline. Today, I reread my journal entries I kept since the beginning of my dissertation journey the school year. They’re heavy. Each page holds fatigue, frustration, and the quiet desperation of a teacher trying to carry too much, too often. But as I moved through the words, I didn’t just feel sadness—I felt clarity. Those entries are proof: I was present. I stayed. Even when I was breaking.

    After spending time with my last art piece, “My Story, My Song,” I realized I needed more space to process everything I had read and revisited. It was a lot to hold. So, I began a new neurographic artwork. It turned into an outdoor scene—a bright blue sky, a red-yellow sun shining boldly overhead, two pinwheeled flowers swaying in the grass. And me - I’m in the picture, looking back and up at the sun. At first, I wasn’t sure what I was trying to express, but now it feels obvious: that figure is me—pausing, breathing, seeing again. Then, in the corner: the turtle. Small, almost hidden, but unmistakably deliberate. Next to it, written in soft script: “no rush.” That message stopped me more than anything else I’ve spent an entire year rushing. Rushing to manage behaviors, write reports, respond to crises. Rushing to meet other people’s expectations—students, families, administrators, the system itself. Rushing to hold everything together, even when I was falling apart. I realize now: the rush wasn’t just about time. It was about pressure. Urgency. Guilt. The constant belief that if I just moved faster, worked harder, gave more—then things would get better. Then maybe I’d finally be “caught up.” I never was. I never could be. The turtle, though, says something entirely different. No rush. Not in healing. Not in understanding what this year did to me. Not in figuring out what’s next. There’s so much power in that. No rush means I don’t have to jump into planning next year. No rush means I don’t have to explain or justify how tired I am. No rush means I can rest without guilt. It means that nothing meaningful about recovery can be forced into a timeline. The turtle reminds me that slow isn’t weakness. Slow is wise. Slow pays attention. Slow is what I’ve denied myself all year, because I thought speed equaled success, but speed only got me to burnout faster.

    I’m listening to the turtle. I’m choosing slow. I’m letting the summer stretch without a to-do list. I’m allowing my nervous system to settle, my thoughts to soften. I’m letting myself be a person again—not just a professional. The man in the drawing—the one looking up at the sun—isn’t in a hurry. He doesn’t need to be. Neither do I. No rush. Not anymore.

    There are two pinwheeled flowers in the picture and I’m looking backward at them. Rereading my journal entries, this is me looking back on the year. Two main sources of burnout rise to the surface. The first was constant behavior management without adequate support. I spent more time de-escalating than teaching. I became the counselor, the disciplinarian, the safe space—sometimes all at once. I’m used to being the calm in the storm, but this year, the storm never let up. It was relentless. And more than once, I wrote about sitting in my car before school, already unraveling before the day had even begun. I started questioning whether I was making any difference at all. The second was emotional overextension. I gave too much. I absorbed everything—student pain, family stress, the pressure to do more with less. I skipped breaks. I stayed late. I carried it all home and let it steal my sleep. I lost sight of where I ended and the job began. Somewhere along the line, my compassion became depletion.

    Now, away from it all, I can see why I drew the sun so large. I needed light. I needed warmth. I needed to remember what it feels like to stand still and just be. The pinwheeled flowers remind me of movement and softness, the possibility of joy in small things. The man—me—looking back and up, is beginning to feel again. To see again. I’m not healed. I’m out. And I’m starting to believe that I deserve more than survival. I’m starting to believe I can choose something different. Maybe not today, maybe not all at once—but soon. This time, I won’t forget where the sun is.

After the Rush

I am no longer rushing—
not through hallways,
not against clocks,
not beneath the weight
of endless demands.

Silence feels unfamiliar,
yet it holds a quiet promise—
a space to breathe,
to come back
to myself.

There is no need
to carry everything all at once,
no need to fix it all
right now.

The weight of urgency
softens when I slow down,
when I let the pace
match what I can hold.

“No rush.”

A simple truth,
a small voice
that breaks through
the noise of pressure.

Slow is not failure.
Slow is wisdom.
Slow is attention.
Slow is the medicine
I forgot to give myself.

In this stillness,
I remember who I am—
beyond the tasks,
beyond the roles.

I am more than survival.
More than exhaustion.

I am beginning
to believe
that healing
cannot be scheduled,
cannot be rushed,
cannot be forced.

It unfolds
in quiet moments,
in gentle rhythms,
in the patience
to just be.

And in that—
I find myself again.

“Looking Back, Standing Still”

mixed media on paper

me: Now that I’m no longer at school, it feels different. I feel different. 

Looking Back, Standing Still: That’s because you have shifted. You’ve stepped out of the storm, even if only for a moment.

me: Looking at that man—that’s me—standing still, looking back and up… It feels strange to see myself not doing anything, not reacting, not rushing. Just… existing in stillness. For so long, I didn’t allow myself that. I was always fighting, always pushing, always bracing for what was next.

Looking Back, Standing Still: That stillness is the space you’ve been aching for, even if you didn’t know it. It’s the quiet after the storm, where your soul can start to breathe again.

me: The sun in the sky feels overwhelmingly bright, almost too much. It’s hope, yes—but it’s also a reminder of what I forgot all year. How I stopped looking up. I was so consumed by exhaustion, by trying to hold everything together, that I forgot the world could still hold light.

Looking Back, Standing Still: The sun never left you. It was always there, waiting. You just couldn’t see it through the weight you carried.

me: And the two pinwheeled flowers. At the time, they were just shapes, colors filling space. Now, I see them as fragile markers of something stubborn—something inside me that kept turning, kept growing, even when I felt broken.

Looking Back, Standing Still: Exactly. They are quiet resilience. Small but real. Like the parts of you that kept hoping, even when everything felt impossible.

me: And the turtle. I almost erased him, thinking he was insignificant. But now, he feels like a lifeline. That simple message—No rush—it’s what I’ve been starving for without knowing it.

turtle: I’m here to remind you that healing isn’t a race. You don’t have to fix everything at once. You don’t have to carry all the weight all the time.

me: I’m scared, honestly. I’ve been so used to moving fast, to pushing harder, to not stopping—even when it hurt. Slowing down feels like admitting I’m not enough. Like giving up.

turtle: Slowing down isn’t giving up. It’s brave. It’s an act of love toward yourself. You’re learning that survival isn’t just about enduring—it’s about healing, too.

me: What if I’m forgotten while I rest? What if the work waits for no one? What if stepping back means losing everything I care about?

Looking Back, Standing Still: Your worth isn’t measured by how fast you run or how much you carry. It’s in your presence, your being. This stillness isn’t absence—it’s strength.

turtle: Healing can’t be rushed because it’s not just about fixing. It’s about rediscovering who you are beneath the exhaustion and expectations. No rush means giving yourself permission to be human.

me: That permission feels foreign—and precious. I want to rest, but I’m afraid of what that means. Afraid I’ll lose myself in the quiet.

turtle: You won’t lose yourself. You’ll find yourself. Slow is how you reclaim your power—piece by piece.

Me: So, moving forward means learning to walk gently—with myself, with the work, with the time I need.

Looking Back, Standing Still: Yes. Carry this stillness as your foundation. It’s what will hold you steady through what’s next.

turtle: Never forget: No rush. Your healing, your growth, your return—they all deserve the time and care you’ve been denying yourself.

me (softly): No rush. I’m starting to believe that.