entry fifty-four

 Monday, June 9, 2025

    I’m never early to the parking lot. Honestly, I’m barely on time. It’s not traffic, or distance, or even the morning routine that holds me back—it’s the weight of waking up and knowing I have to walk into that building again. Mornings are rough. I hit snooze more than once, not out of laziness, but resistance. Resistance to stepping into another day where I’m needed by everyone and sustained by almost nothing. Resistance to the thought of being everything to everyone again, when I barely feel like myself. This morning, I finally parked and just sat there. Engine humming. Time ticking. My hands on the wheel, not moving. I wasn’t frozen—more like paused. Suspended in that small sliver of time where no one was asking anything of me yet. I stared through the windshield, knowing that as soon as I stepped out, I’d have to carry it all again: the behaviors, the broken systems, the too-late emails, the too-soon meetings, the invisible labor no one accounts for.

    Ay nako. Where do I even begin? I know exactly where to begin—because it’s the same place I return to every year - year after year. I’ve been teaching special ed for over a decade. I know the rhythm of the year, the stress spikes, the meltdowns, the small wins, the IEP season rollercoaster. This year hit different. Deeper. Sharper. Like the cracks that were already there just widened without warning. There are days when I don’t even get to sit. Days I don’t eat lunch. Days I manage three escalating behaviors before 9:00 a.m. Somehow, I’m still expected to document every detail, smile for end-of-the-year photos, email a parent back about why their child didn’t earn a reward point, and phone another parent about how her child will be bringing home soiled clothes in a plastic bag because he pooped in his pants for what seems like the millionth time this year. Ay nako.

    The kids—I love them, of course I do—but they are carrying so much, and their pain doesn’t clock out at 2:45pm. When they lash out, it lands on me. Sometimes physically and always emotionally. I am their anchor, their container, their mirror. I feel like my own anchor is cracked. The end of the year used to feel like a celebration. Now, it feels like crawling to the finish line with skinned knees and a stack of unfinished behavior charts. I’m worn out from constantly adapting—new mandates, new caseloads, new trainings that ignore the reality of my classroom. I’m tired of being asked to "just make it work."

    Still—despite all of it—I find myself softening at the sound of a student saying, “I’m going to miss you.” That part stings because they don’t know that I’ve spent all year wondering if I can keep doing this. If I should keep doing this. I don’t want to leave burned out. I want to leave (or stay) because I’ve healed and because I’ve been seen and supported rather than drained and dismissed. For now, I breathe.

    Ay nako—today, it’s not defeat. It’s a release. A sigh. A small act of truth. I’ll walk back in tomorrow, but I’ll carry a little less of the guilt. A little more of the knowing that my exhaustion is not weakness—it’s proof I’ve been giving everything. But damn, something’s got to change.