Wednesday, June 4, 2025
I am suffocating in paper. Not metaphorically—literally. The weight of two unfinished IEPs sits on my desk like unopened letters from a war I didn’t sign up for. IEP report cards stare at me, each one needing input from colleagues I never see because we don’t share time, only expectations. I’m piecing together data from conversations squeezed into hallway passings and vague Google Docs with half-filled boxes. The system expects collaboration without offering time, clarity, or care. And so I chase it—this illusion of completeness—hoping no one notices how fragmented everything is behind the scenes.
It would be easier to shoulder all of this if I felt protected. But I don’t. Just when I started to breathe again—when the Google review was finally removed—the same lie rose from the dead, this time on Yelp. A new platform. Same weapon. The accusation wasn’t just false—it was soul-splitting. But now it’s not even about the incident. It’s about the aftershock. It’s the reminder that no matter how many songs I sing, how many shoelaces I tie, how many midnight emails I send on behalf of my students, one person’s bitterness can become the louder truth. And the system doesn’t defend me. Not with urgency. Not with belief. Not with a whisper of, “We’ve got you.”
And so, I hold it. Alone.
Seven days left. Just seven. It should feel hopeful. But it doesn’t feel like a countdown. It feels like a crawl—one I’m dragging myself through with what’s left of my strength. My students are still showing up with their big emotions, their chaos, their beauty. I still show up for them, too. I always do. But behind the structure and songs is a teacher who feels invisible and disposable. Like my worth expires with every missed checkbox and every new place the lie finds to land.
What makes it worse is the silence. The collective shrug. I don’t want applause. I just want recognition. For the invisible labor. For the tears no one sees. For the unbearable tension of holding a classroom together while my insides unravel. There are moments I want to disappear—not because I want to die, but because I’m so deeply tired of defending my right to exist in this profession with dignity. I want someone to scream back at the system and say, “This is too much. This is not sustainable. This teacher deserves better.” But no one screams. So I write. I reflect. I hold myself steady with these words. Tonight, I’m naming it: I’m burned out, bruised, and betrayed. But I’m still breathing. Still teaching. Still trying to find grace in the ruins. That’s the part no one sees. Not even the mirror some days.
If you are reading this—if anyone ever does—please understand: what looks like strength on the outside is often survival. And even the strongest among us need someone to notice when we’re fading. Seven days. That’s all. I can do seven more. I think.
Still Standing
The desk groans beneath the weight—
not of books,
but of demands wrapped in deadlines,
signed in urgency,
scattered like leaves in a storm
no one else feels.
I’m the calm in the chaos,
the one who remembers
to bring Band-Aids and birthday pencils,
while forgetting to breathe.
I stitch gaps between services,
squeeze meetings into minutes
I don't have,
translate behavior into data
as if pain were measurable.
The bell rings—again.
You're asked for more—again.
Another form,
another meeting,
another goal,
another signature
to prove I’m doing
what I’ve already done
a hundred times,
unseen.
They say the year is ending,
but nothing feels finished.
The finish line
keeps moving.
The praise never comes.
The inbox never sleeps.
And the silence—
the silence when falsehoods fly louder than truth—
cuts deeper than words.
I am not just tired.
I am threadbare.
Holding it together
in a system
that lets me fray.
Here I am.
Still showing up.
Still calling them by name.
Still trying to be the anchor
in a job that keeps drifting.
Not because it’s easy—
but because somewhere
beneath the exhaustion,
I still believe
they’re worth it.
I just wish—
for once—
someone believed
I was too.
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