Tuesday, June 10, 2025
Two more days. That’s the countdown flashing in my mind—two more sunrises until freedom of summer—yet here I am, elbow-deep in yet another IEP meeting for a student I’ve barely connected with. School ends Thursday. Today, I sat in yet another meeting for a student I barely know. Not because I haven’t tried, but because he rarely shows up—sometimes late, sometimes withdrawn, sometimes just a name on a roster in another classroom that I’m expected to support.
IEPs are never light work. They demand time, care, accuracy, and collaboration. Each one takes about five hours—five hours I don’t have right now. Not with report cards due, behavior data piling up, year-end checklists looming, “fun” activities needing planning, and my classroom still looking like mid-March. Not to mention the emotional bandwidth it takes to say goodbye to kids who have taken up space in my heart all year long. It’s all too much. Yet there I was today, smiling on cue in a meeting and trying to piece together a plan for a student I’m supposed to advocate for without ever truly having had the time to connect. The system says this is what’s best, but it feels hollow. Rushed. Unfair. Like a checklist instead of a care plan. I can't help but wonder—who is this really serving?
To ground myself during the meeting, I picked up a sticky note and began drawing neurographic lines—slow, curved lines that branched and wove together without judgment. Not scribbles. Just quiet, mindful movement. It was the only thing that kept me centered. It helped me stay present without becoming swallowed by the weight of all I was holding. Those lines were my lifeline—a small act of resistance against the chaos. The irony is that I show up because I care and because I want to do things right. When the system keeps piling more and more on my plate at the eleventh hour, it chips away at the integrity I try so hard to preserve. I can’t keep pouring from an empty cup and pretending that it’s fine. Today, I remembered that small tools matter. A pen, a sticky note, and a pattern I could control. That moment of art—barely even visible to others—helped me breathe. Right now, breathing feels like an act of survival.
Three days left. I’ll get through it. I always do. I’m carrying a growing awareness that “getting through” should not be the measure of my success. I want to teach with presence, not pressure. I want to feel whole, not just functioning. I want to believe that support isn’t something I only give, but something I can receive, too. For now, I’ll keep drawing my lines—one small act of centering at a time.
me: Here I am again, sitting through yet another meeting. It feels like I’m holding everything together, but inside, I’m fraying. This sticky note—these lines—they’re the only thing I can control right now.
A Meeting of the Lines: I’m your small quiet space in the middle of all that noise. Those lines—curved, flowing, connected—they’re your breath when the world won’t slow down.
me: I keep thinking: two more days until summer. Two more mornings before I get some relief. But today? Today felt like carrying a weight I barely understand—making plans for a student I barely know.
A Meeting of the Lines: Still, you showed up. Even when your cup is empty, you arrive with care. These lines are your quiet resistance, your reminder that amidst the chaos, there’s something you can shape.
me: I want to do right by them, by all my students. But this system—the endless checklists, the last-minute meetings—sometimes it feels like I’m just a cog, ticking boxes instead of making a difference.
A Meeting of the Lines: That’s why you needed me. To create a moment just for yourself—a pause that no one else might notice, but that you feel. You needed to anchor yourself with something real.
me: I wonder who this system really serves. It doesn’t always feel like it’s about the kids—or about teachers. Sometimes I feel invisible in these rooms, like a ghost pushing papers.
A Meeting of the Lines: You’re not invisible here. Every curve you draw is a mark of presence—a way of saying, “I’m still here. I still care.” Even if the room feels rushed or hollow, you’re grounding yourself.
me: Two days left. I keep telling myself I’ll get through it, like it’s a race. But I want more than just surviving. I want to show up fully—for my students and for myself.
A Meeting of the Lines: You don’t have to wait until summer break to breathe. These lines, this moment of quiet—they’re a reminder that small acts of care matter. Keep drawing your way back to yourself. One line at a time.
me: I’m learning that presence can come in small pieces. That even a sticky note can hold a lifeline when everything else feels too heavy.
A Meeting of the Lines: Exactly. You’re not just getting through. You’re holding space—for your students, for yourself, and for the messy, imperfect process of showing up.
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